Trust
by Silent Number
Summary: When a group of new prisoners arrives at Stalag 13, trust becomes an issue, and not just for Hogan and his men.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own Hogan's Heroes or any of the characters. This story takes place before "A Dark Night, Long Ago". _

"That's three new barracks buildings going up. So if each one's going to hold the same number of men as the existing huts, we're talking between forty-five and fifty extra prisoners."

Colonel Hogan, the senior officer of the prisoners of war at Stalag Luft 13, leaned against the end wall of Barracks 2, in the company of his four most trusted subordinates. From here, only one of the new huts could be seen, a skeletal framework of timbers whose structural integrity made the older ones look master-built. From behind the rows of barracks, the sound of hammering indicated work in progress.

"They've almost finished that end one," observed Newkirk, jerking his head towards the source of the noise. "I shouldn't be surprised if it's just about done by knock-off time, all but putting the bunks in. Klink hasn't said anything yet, has he, Colonel?"

"No. I asked him what the new buildings were for, and all he said was that when I needed to know, I'd be advised."

"Well, maybe they aren't barracks." This came from Carter. "Maybe they're gonna use 'em for storage or something."

"I don't think so," said Hogan. "If they had nothing to do with the prisoners, Klink would have told me fast enough. Anyway, they're too close to the other barracks to be anything else."

Newkirk shrugged. "So we're getting new residents. Well, that should spice up the darts championships a bit. But why are you so worried about it, Colonel? The Jerries are always sending more prisoners here."

"Not usually in wholesale quantities. You know the score here, Newkirk. Every guy that comes through that gate has to be checked, and rechecked, until we're absolutely sure he can be trusted. We can't take any chances on the Krauts slipping in an informant on us. Checking fifty new men all at once is going to take a lot of time and effort, and interfere with operations."

"Maybe they won't all arrive at once," said Kinch. "The Krauts are putting all their energy into finishing that end hut. My guess is, we'll get a full complement for that one as soon as it's finished, then they'll get on with the next one."

"Which means the whole process drags on for weeks," replied Hogan. "That doesn't make it any better. And who's to say Klink will put all of 'em in one barracks? He might decide to move some of the old prisoners into the new building, to make room in the existing huts for the newcomers, which will just spread the problem around. We don't need security risks all over camp, not with everything we've got going on."

The discussion broke off at the approach of Schultz, the German sergeant of the guard. "Colonel Hogan, the Kommandant wants to see you in his office," he said.

"Yeah, okay, Schultz," replied Hogan, but he didn't move.

"He said to come right away. If it's not inconvenient," added Schultz deprecatingly. He had lost money at the previous night's blackjack game, and was anxious to defer payment by staying on Hogan's good side. But Kommandant Klink, who could order a transfer to the Russian Front for any of his men at any time, had to be kept sweet as well.

"What's it about, Schultzie?" asked LeBeau. "Didn't Klink tell you?"

"He never tells me anything," said Schultz. "It's better that way. If I know nothing, I can't be blamed for it when it happens."

"You just keep believing that, Schultz," replied Hogan with a grin. "I'd better go see what kind of nothing Klink's got on his mind. Kinch, why don't you put the coffee pot on?" He zipped up the front of his jacket, and set off briskly towards the _Kommandantur_.

"A very good idea," remarked Schultz. "It has been cold this morning, a cup of coffee would just hit the..."

"No, Schultz," said Kinch, as he followed his pals into the barracks, and closed the door.

They had good reason for keeping Schultz out of their _Kaffeeklatsch_. What came out of the coffee pot in Hogan's quarters wasn't coffee. Inside its scratched and dented shell was hidden the receiver for the listening device they had installed in the Kommandant's office, and as Kinch plugged it in, and LeBeau laid the speaker on the desk, Hogan's voice came through: "You wanted to see me, Colonel?"

"Ah, yes, Hogan, come in. I wanted to talk to you about the new buildings. You will have noticed that the first one is almost ready for occupation. And I'm sure you've already worked out what that means."

"You're sub-letting? Golly, that's pretty enterprising, Colonel. Neat idea, though - the way things are going, the Luftwaffe probably needs the extra cash to replace the planes our guys keep shooting down."

"Very amusing, Hogan." Klink's voice took on an edge. "The new huts are being built to accommodate additional prisoners - Americans, your fellow servicemen, captured by our superior German forces. The first contingent will arrive here on Friday morning. Fourteen men, fresh from transit camp. That's not so funny, is it?"

"Actually, I think it's great," said Hogan, in a bright, enthusiastic tone. "The escape committee's been complaining for weeks about how they just keep getting the same tired old ideas in the suggestions box. Maybe these new guys'll freshen things up a bit."

"Is that so? Hogan, if you think I'm worried about your ridiculous escape committee...well...well, there had better not be any trouble, otherwise there will be consequences."

The listeners exchanged grins. Baiting the Kommandant was easy, effective, and the best fun men in their situation could hope to get.

"You know, I sometimes think Klink actually believes in the escape committee," said Newkirk. "Probably thinks there's a Father Christmas, and all."

His buddies snickered, but Klink was still speaking. "I will give you fair warning, Hogan, my guards have been ordered to be extra vigilant. And I suggest you make it quite clear to these new prisoners that Stalag 13 is escape-proof, and that any attempts to prove otherwise will be met with the most severe punishment."

"Don't you worry , Colonel. By the end of the week, they'll be as clued up about that as all the other men," replied Hogan cheerfully. "Especially if you spread 'em out among the barracks. That's the best way for them to learn, if you ask me."

"Oh, I'm sure it is. The best way to learn insolence, insubordination, and disorderly conduct. Well, forget it. The new men will all be kept together in Barracks 18, away from any bad influences."

"Why can't I learn to keep my big mouth shut?" grumbled Hogan, as if he hadn't just gotten the exact result he was hoping for. "You win again, Kommandant. Anything else?"

"No, that's all. But I expect you to be on hand when the new men arrive. Dismissed,"

Kinch unplugged the coffee pot. "Well, that's it. Fourteen of 'em, and more on the way."

"All Americans, too," remarked Newkirk sourly, as he lit a cigarette. "Well, they might be all right, or they might be dodgy. But one thing I can tell you right now."

"What's that?" asked Carter, gazing at him in puzzled wonder.

Newkirk took a deep lungful of smoke, and let it out before he replied: "They'll be no bloody use at all for the cricket team."


	2. Chapter 2

The new prisoners arrived at Stalag 13 early on Friday afternoon.

"Poor buggers, they look a bit down in the dumps," remarked Newkirk. He was slouched against the barracks wall, while LeBeau, sitting on a little three-legged stool, peeled potatoes.

For a few seconds they watched in silence, each remembering his own capture and the long period of adjustment which had followed. Then Newkirk straightened up, and went into the hut. A minute later, Hogan came out, and with his customary briskness strode across the compound, while Newkirk resumed his position holding up the wall.

Seen close up, the fourteen men had a surly, unkempt appearance. The guards who had brought them shoved and shouted them into line. Two of the goons stepped forward to block Hogan's approach, but fell back again as Klink came out of his office. "It's all right, let him past," he said, before turning his attention to his new charges. With a superior smirk, and condescension in his eye, he made a slow inspection of each man.

"So, Hogan, these are the latest examples of American military standards," he said. "Disgraceful. I've never seen such a sloppy turn-out." His gaze fell on the nearest man, who from all appearances had not had a chance to clean or repair his uniform since he'd been taken prisoner. "Just look at this man," Klink went on. "You would never see any German soldier in such a filthy state."

A flash of resentment crossed the man's face, and his hands clenched, but Hogan was on the alert, and he intervened quickly. "Well, it's hardly his fault, Kommandant. The valet service at those transit camps is terrible. Frankly, I'd like to see some improvement. Maybe if you wrote to the German High Command, and gave them a few pointers..."

"Thank you, Hogan, that will do. You are here to observe, not to interfere." Klink spoke through gritted teeth, then turned his back on his greatest annoyance, just in time to catch the furtive grins on the faces of a couple of the new prisoners. Apparently they weren't completely beaten down yet.

Klink drew himself up, pinned a smug smile on his lips, and embarked on his standard welcoming speech. "Gentlemen, you have been brought to the most secure prisoner of war camp in all of Germany. There has never been a successful escape from Stalag 13, and there never will be. Now, I want to make it clear from the outset..."

Hogan had heard it all before. He let it wash over him, while he took his first good look at the new arrivals, trying to see past their outward scruffiness and assess what was going on behind it. The standard reactions were all there: sullenness, hostility, ill-concealed fear, along with the usual contemptuous wonder at the ridiculous figure of their head captor. Most of them were taking in as much of the camp as could be seen, glancing at the guard towers, the barbed wire, the rows of barracks buildings.

Hogan's gaze, moving from one man to the next, came to rest on the last in line. This man - a sergeant, going by the stripes on the torn, stained sleeve of his uniform - stood just slightly apart from the others. He kept his eyes lowered, and his expression was almost unnaturally blank.

For a minute or so Hogan studied him. He looked pretty ordinary, average height, sturdy build, good-looking in an unobtrusive way. Nor was his manner particularly unusual. Plenty of newcomers tried to hide their feelings until they had found their feet. There was nothing suspicious about it, except that this guy seemed to be taking it to extremes. He didn't show any response, or look up, during the whole of the Kommandant's long-winded and tedious address.

"...and I can promise you this. For as long as this war lasts, until your government accepts the inevitable and surrenders, you will remain as guests of the Third Reich. So I suggest you forget about seeing your homes and families until that day comes." Klink paused for effect, but the prisoners remained unimpressed. After a few seconds, the Kommandant turned to Schultz. "Call the roll, and then take them to the delousing station."

"_Jawohl, Herr Kommandant_," rumbled Schultz. He put his glasses on, and peered at the clipboard in his hand, while Klink stumped off to his office. Hogan loitered, watching with interest.

The man who had caught his attention answered, in a soft, neutral voice and without looking up, to "Mills, P, Sergeant." Two others held the same rank, but the barracks chief would be Lieutenant Jeffries. He had seniority, but looked a little younger, and a lot more nervous and unsure of himself, than Hogan would have liked.

Having completed the roll call, Schultz removed his glasses, and put them away with finicky care. "Colonel Hogan, do you want to say anything to the men before they go to the delousing station?"

"Just a few words," said Hogan, stepping forward. "I'd like to extend a welcome to you men, on behalf of the rest of the boys. Now, you'll probably soon know your way around the camp, but I'll just let you know the important points. The mess hall is on the other side of the camp. Avoid it at all costs. Even the rats won't eat there. Red Cross packages come in once a month, and sometimes the guards only steal half of them. The woodworking class meets in Barracks 5 every afternoon. They're learning to make ladders. There's also a class in basic German conversation, that's in Barracks 9 on Thursdays. It's always handy to know a few words when you're out and about. And if you've managed to sneak in any contraband, see Sergeant Roberts in Barracks 3. He's got the right contacts and can get you a better price than you'll get on the open market. That's all. Enjoy your stay, however short it might be."

The tension among the new men had lightened during his speech, although it didn't seem to have had any effect on Mills. But he shot a brief glance at Hogan, before he followed the others to the delousing station.

Carter and Kinch had joined the others outside the barracks. "Well, Colonel?" asked Newkirk, as Hogan arrived back. "Anything dodgy?"

"Most of them seem to have the right attitude," said Hogan. "But any Kraut informer is gonna be smart enough to know how a man who's just been taken prisoner should act. That doesn't tell us anything."

"You want us to go over to the delousing station and have a rummage through their kit?"

"Not now. There's a lot of the guards who brought 'em in still hanging round. If you were spotted by our own goons, you could fast-talk your way out, but transit camp guards are always a little trigger happy." He paused, frowning. "There's a guy called Mills. Something about him isn't right."

"You think he's a plant?" said Carter.

Hogan pursed his lips. "No, there's something else going on. My guess is, something's gotten to him. Maybe he's still in shock, from being shot down, or maybe some of his crewmates didn't make it. Some guys take that harder than others. Or he could just be shaken up over getting captured, and trying not to show it."

"Transit camp's not exactly a cakewalk, either," remarked Kinch. "Those places can really mess with a guy's mind."

"Right, Kinch. So let's not jump to any conclusions." Hogan glanced towards the delousing station. "Let 'em get settled into their barracks, then we'll start work on them. I'll go over and brief the senior officer about his duties, and see what I can get out of him. Kinch, you and Newkirk can organize the welcome wagon. Take up a collection throughout the camp of stuff they might be short on - spare clothes, shaving kit, any leftovers from the last Red Cross delivery, the usual things a new prisoner needs and probably doesn't have."

"Just being neighborly, like?" said Newkirk.

"Yeah. But while you're there, let it drop that there'll be a poker game in Barracks 2 tomorrow afternoon, straight after the exercise period. A friendly game, strictly no cash bets. See if you can't get one or two of them to come along. They might be more inclined to loosen up over a game of cards."

"You want us to get this guy Mills?" asked Kinch.

"If he's interested. But don't push it," said Hogan.

He didn't say any more, but he doubted they'd have any luck with Mills. For any new prisoner, there were other enemies besides the Germans. Every man at Stalag 13 had fought his own battle, with more or less success, against fear, humiliation and despair. But Hogan had looked Sergeant Mills in the eye, and he had a feeling that, for this man, the battle might have already been lost.


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey, this story about no prisoners ever escaping from here - is that true, or was that long streak of misery putting us on?"

An hour into the poker game, and the new prisoners were starting to relax in the social atmosphere of Barracks 2. Hogan had retired to his office, guessing that the visitors would talk more freely to other enlisted men than in the presence of an officer.

Mills hadn't taken up the invitation. In fact, when Newkirk and Kinch had arrived at Barracks 18, laden with the necessities of prison life they had gathered for the new arrivals, he'd hardly even seemed aware of their presence. While the others had been full of questions about Stalag 13, he had kept to himself. It was only Newkirk's cheerful persistence which had gotten him to accept the offer of a couple of worn but respectable uniform coveralls to supplement his existing outfit, which apparently consisted of little more than the clothes on his back.

But three of his barracks mates - Cooper, Adams and MacNeill - had turned up at Barracks 2 the next day, eager for a chance of a friendly game. They seemed all right, and once they'd gotten over the initial awkwardness of not knowing anyone, they were quite forthcoming about their units, and how they'd come to be shot down. MacNeill was the loudest, a big man with a big voice and a lot of opinions. But Cooper and Adams were outgoing enough.

It was Adams who threw the question into the hubbub of conversation. He was a nice kid, with so little guile that Newkirk not only knew when he had a good hand, but could even have named the cards. It had taken him less than ten minutes to disclose his squadron, his home town and the names of his best girl, his two brothers and the family dog.

The long-term prisoners exchanged looks. "I hate to admit it," said Kinch, "but Klink was right. Not that we haven't been trying, but so far no luck."

"So let me get this straight." MacNeill leaned back in his chair, stretching. "You got a crummy prison camp with a boiled egg on stilts for a Kommandant, and nobody's ever made it out?"

"Oh, we get out," replied Carter, "but we always end up back here. It's kind of embarrassing, when you think about it."

"We'll pull it off, one day," said Newkirk.

"You got something going?" Adams' eyes fixed on him with a gleam of interest, but Newkirk, having thrown out the bait, had no intention of letting the fish bite too soon.

"Never mind about that," he said. "Carter, it's your bid."

Carter frowned over his hand for a moment, then pushed several of his matchsticks into the center of the table. "Boy, I'll be glad when we finally make it," he remarked. "A guy could go crazy, stuck in here with the same old routine, and the same old faces...not that I'm complaining about you fellers," he added hastily, with a glance around the table. "I mean, at least I'm not bunking in with an axe murderer, or some guy who picks his teeth, or anything like that. You guys are real easy to get along with."

"I guess that makes a difference, huh? The kind of guy who's sleeping in the next bunk, I mean." MacNeill's eyes rested on Kinch for a moment. "I'll raise you two," he added.

"Yeah, well, the other fellers that came in with us, they seem okay," said Adams.

Newkirk chuckled softly. "So far, anyway. Three weeks, and you'll be about ready to kill the one that talks with his mouth full, or the one that snores all night, or the absolute bastard with the chronic sniffle."

"Yeah, it's the little things that drive you insane at first," said Kinch. "After a while you get used to them."

"What about the not so little things?" asked Cooper.

"Them, too," said Newkirk. "How many cards, Cooper?"

"Two." Cooper studied his hand. He seemed to have forgotten his question, but Carter took it up.

"I guess there's not much you can't put up with, if you have to. I mean, what are you gonna do, move house? I don't think so."

"You got a problem with someone already, Cooper?" said Kinch.

Cooper shrugged. "Just saying. There's some guys got real bad habits."

"You mean like eating peas with their knife?" put in LeBeau, from the stove where he was busy with a stew. Adams had been eying the pot covertly for the last ten minutes.

"No, I mean like getting into stuff that's supposed to be hands off," replied Cooper.

"Stealing? Goes on all the time, right, Newkirk?" Carter grinned at his English buddy. "Someone swipes your stuff, you just wait for a chance to swipe it back."

Cooper gave a little smile, but didn't answer. A look passed between Kinch and Newkirk. But before either of them could pursue the matter, an interruption occurred.

"_Achtung_! What is going on in here? You know that visiting between the barracks is against the rules, and gambling is strictly _verboten_." Schultz, overflowing with irritable officiousness, threw the door open and lumbered in.

MacNeill gaped at him, Cooper started to his feet, and Adams dropped his cards, but the Barracks 2 men didn't even blink. "We're not gambling, Schultz," said Newkirk. "It's just a friendly game to help our new chums start feeling at home."

"No, Newkirk, it is still against regulation," grumbled Schultz. "Kommandant Klink has been very clear. He doesn't want the new prisoners getting into bad company and learning bad habits."

"Oh, come on, Schultz. You're usually the first one looking to join in," observed Kinch, regarding the guard with grave displeasure. "How come nobody cares if you get into bad company?"

Schultz primmed up his mouth. "Because for me, it's too late."

"I'll say it is," said Carter, snickering. "If there's any bad company round here..."

"What's all the noise?" asked Hogan, emerging from his office. "Can't a guy get some sleep round here?"

"It's just Schultz, busting up our game, Colonel," said Kinch.

"Schultz? Busting up a card game? Since when?"

"I am sorry, but those are my orders. You men, back to your own barracks." Schultz gestured toward the outsiders.

Hogan rolled his eyes, but nodded. "Okay, fellers, some other time."

It was obvious they weren't happy. But they did as they were told, Cooper with an indifferent shrug, MacNeill with a glare, and Adams with a reluctant, wistful glance towards the saucepan on the stove. Schultz, apologetic but determined, followed them out.

"That young lad wants feeding up," observed Newkirk, as he gathered up the cards. "Pity we couldn't have invited him to stay for dinner."

"Yeah, I reckon we'd have gotten his whole life story," said Kinch. "He sure didn't hold back, Colonel. MacNeill had plenty to say, too. Cooper, not so much, but enough so we can verify his story. It's just a pity he left so soon. He was just about to dish up some dirt on one of the others when Schultz shoved his oar in."

"Anything interesting?" said Hogan, his eyes narrowing a little.

"He thinks one of them's dodgy in some way," replied Newkirk. "But he didn't get round to saying who, or what it is about them he doesn't like."

"He was dancing around it," added Kinch. "Didn't want to say it right out. From what he said, it sounded like he thinks they've got a thief in there. But he wasn't exactly clear about it."

"If that's all it is, Jeffries should be okay to sort it out. But I'd like to be sure." Hogan pursed his lips. "It's probably a couple of weeks since some of them had a change of clothes. Now they've got something else to wear, they'll be pretty anxious to wash the stuff they arrived in. I'll go over and tell Jeffries that they can use the prisoners' laundry tomorrow after roll call, same time as we're doing ours."

"What if Schultz decides to throw his weight around some more?" asked Kinch.

"Then everyone better take cover," replied Newkirk, with a low chuckle.

"We'll just have to make sure Schultz is otherwise engaged," said Hogan. "LeBeau..."

"_Oui, _I know. I'll make the strudel tonight," sighed the chef.

"Newkirk, you talk to Cooper, and find out what the hell he was hinting at," Hogan went on. "There's Mills, as well. I still want to know what the deal is there. Carter, you're the most harmless-looking. See what you can get out of him."

"Okay," said Carter, his brow wrinkling as if he wasn't sure whether harmlessness was a desirable attribute, especially in wartime. "The usual questions?"

"Yeah. Keep it light. If he gets touchy, back off. But if he seems likely to talk, then you show willing to listen."

"You think there's something iffy about him, Colonel?" asked Newkirk.

"I just want to check him out," replied Hogan. "I don't think he's working for the Krauts, he's got the wrong attitude. Informants usually go to a lot of effort to seem like just one of the guys. There's something else going on with Mills. Okay, it could be just his way of handling the situation, and he'll snap out of it once he settles in. But I'd rather be certain. I don't want to wake up one morning to find out I was wrong."

He didn't say any more, but his men knew what he was thinking. Some men coped reasonably well with the physical and mental stresses involved in capture and imprisonment. Others found the experience hard to deal with. A very small number became so desperate, they would do anything to get out, one way or another.

If Mills fell into that category, there was likely to be rough weather ahead.


	4. Chapter 4

The morning brought a clear sky and a light breeze. For getting some long-overdue laundry done, it couldn't have been more perfect. And as Newkirk remarked, "There's nothing like a bit of sunshine to make a man feel like having a nice little chat over a washtub, is there?"

It was only natural, when the new inmates arrived at the open-air laundry area, that some of the old hands would turn out to give them a few pointers. The only guard who might have bothered to object was Schultz, and he was elsewhere. Behind the motor pool shed, to be exact.

"As a matter of fact, LeBeau," he remarked, as he took a fourth helping of strudel, "I didn't really want to break up your poker game yesterday. But orders are orders, and anyway, it was for the best. Those new prisoners, they have to learn how things work around here. I wouldn't want to see the rest of you learning any bad behavior from them."

"I thought you were worried about them catching bad habits from us," said LeBeau.

Schultz shook his head, and brushed a few flakes of pastry from his chest. "You men in Barracks 2 have your faults. But one thing you do not do is get into fights with each other."

"That's true." LeBeau cocked an eye at the big German. "Have they been fighting? I didn't hear anything."

"Not yet," admitted Schultz. "Not here, anyway. But better not to take any chances, that's what I think. Whatever they might have gotten up to elsewhere, we don't need any of that kind of trouble among the prisoners here at Stalag 13."

"Of course not. It's such a nice neighborhood. But I still don't understand," pursued the Frenchman. "If there haven't been any fights since they got here, what gives you the idea that they might cause any trouble?"

"Well, you know when new prisoners come in, we always make them go through the delousing station, because you never know what kind of vermin they might have picked up at the transit camps."

"I know. You Germans should really keep those places cleaner, Schultz."

"The Dulag is not my responsibility," said Schultz, with a wave of his hand. "The point is, they all have to go through the showers, and whether we like it or not, we guards have to supervise. And sometimes you notice things. Now, you tell me how a man gets such terrible bruises all over his body, if he hasn't been in a fight."

"Which one was it?" asked LeBeau, after a few seconds.

"I don't know them one from the other yet. But if they start any of that sort of monkey business here, the Kommandant will be furious. So what I think is, if there's going to be any trouble, let's keep it in the new barracks. That way I don't get the blame."

LeBeau murmured something by way of agreement, but behind the disinterested expression, the spark of an angry flame had kindled. There were more causes than one for a man arriving from transit camp showing signs of a beating. Interrogations at the Dulag were usually hands-off affairs, relying on psychology rather than physical violence, but it wasn't unknown for them to get a little too intense. Schultz could turn a blind eye all he liked, but there was a strong possibility that whoever he was talking about had received his injuries at the hands of the Gestapo.

* * *

While LeBeau was picking up some unexpected information, the rest of Hogan's team had started making their own enquiries. Newkirk, Kinch and Carter made it their business to be loitering around the laundry area, ready to make themselves helpful, when the Barracks 18 contingent turned up.

Hogan gave them time to get comfortable before he sauntered over to find Lieutenant Jeffries standing near, but not quite in, the busy laundry. It was one of the perks of the barracks chiefs, that they didn't have to do their own chores, although most of them didn't stand on ceremony to that extent. Even Hogan got his hands dirty every so often. Jeffries, so it seemed, had other ideas.

He straightened up as the senior POW approached. "Colonel."

"At ease, lieutenant." Hogan gave him a friendly grin. "We're not all that formal round here."

"Yes, sir." Jeffries relaxed a little, but he remained wary.

"So, how are you settling in?" Hogan went on, in his best just-one-of-the-guys manner. "No problems with any of the men in your barracks?"

Jeffries glanced at his men. Most of them had congregated in small groups around the available washtubs, getting in each other's way as they got to know each other. But Mills was working on his own, a few feet apart from the rest. The lieutenant's eyes fixed on him, just for a moment.

"No problems at all, sir," he said.

"Sure?" Hogan, watching the young man's face, saw the same signs of indecision he'd noticed before. "Because some guys find it hard to adjust, and that can lead to all kinds of trouble. So any problems have to be dealt with as soon as they come up. As the senior officer in the barracks, it's your responsibility, but if you need advice, you can always come and ask."

"Yes, sir. I'll do that, if I need to," replied Jeffries. Hogan already knew he wouldn't, just as he knew there was indeed a problem of some kind, which Jeffries wasn't willing to admit to.

Maybe it was just a case of a young officer, inexperienced and afraid of losing face, rather than anything more suspicious. But until Hogan was sure, he would have to keep a close eye on Lieutenant Jeffries.

* * *

Adams paused in his energetic scrubbing of a woollen sock against the washboard. "You know, I kind of wish I was in the same barracks as you guys," he remarked plaintively.

"How come?" asked Kinch. "I thought you said the men you're in with are okay."

"Well, they are, most of them. I guess it's just because they're all just as new here as I am. Now, you fellers have all been here long enough to know how the place works, and how to get on and all. And seeing as none of us knows any of the others - well, you know, I saw a couple of them round the transit camp, but that's about it. So when some of them start saying stuff, well, nobody knows whether they're on the level."

"What sort of stuff?"

"Just stuff," said Adams, blushing as he renewed his attack on the sock.

Kinch regarded him thoughtfully. With a bit of effort, he could probably get Adams to spill the beans, but that came with the risk of losing the kid's trust. He'd have to go carefully. "You get on all right with them, don't you?"

"Well, what else am I going to do? Seems to me if I gotta live with them for who knows how long, I just have to get on with them." The sock joined the pile of wet garments waiting for someone to take them to the clothes lines, and Adams fished around in the water for its partner.

"You learned that pretty fast," said Kinch. "Some guys never seem to get it. But we've been pretty lucky so far. I don't remember more than one or two cases of real trouble among the prisoners. Colonel Hogan runs a tight ship."

Adams glanced at Hogan, who was still chatting idly to Jeffries. "Yeah, I bet he does. Boy, are you ever lucky to have him in charge of your barracks." His naiveté was quite touching. He had no idea how much he'd just given away about the situation under Jeffries' command.

Once again, Kinch decided to shift the discussion. He nodded towards Mills, who was receiving Carter's overtures of friendship with every sign of deep hostility. "He's an odd kind of character, isn't he?"

He wasn't prepared for the reaction. Adams turned on him, with a startled, almost shocked expression. "You already heard about that?"

"Heard about what?"

"Uh...nothing." Blushing so hard that even his earlobes glowed red, Adams retrieved the sock he'd dropped on the ground, and dipped it back into the water to rinse off the dirt. "Mills is okay. He just doesn't talk much. That's all." He spoke with a slightly defiant edge, as if expecting an argument.

But Kinch wasn't about to argue. "Well, if you think he's okay, that's good enough for me," he said. He would have liked to know more, but clearly, as far as Adams was concerned, discussing Mills' character was off limits.

* * *

"Hey, buddy, how's it going?"

Sergeant Mills looked up briefly from the washtub, but didn't stop working. Nor did he reply to the artlessly friendly greeting. It wasn't a good start, but Carter didn't discourage easy.

"You know, you probably need more soap in there," he went on. "I got some spare, if you want."

"It's fine," muttered Mills, pushing his garments under the thin layer of greyish suds.

"Well, if you change your mind, all you gotta do is ask. I'm in Barracks 2, right over there. So if there's anything you need..." Carter paused, but there was no response. This wasn't going so good. "So, you're Mills, right?"

Mills gave him another glance. "You been checking up already?"

"No...uh...someone told me your name was Mills," stammered Carter.

"Okay. Suppose we get this over with." Mills straightened, his hands clenching on the edge of the tub. "Mills, Paul, Sergeant. Originally from Fort Wayne, Indiana. Rear gunner, flying with 182 Squadron out of Basingstoke. Bailed out over Saarbrücken three weeks ago, got picked up the next day, ended up in Dulag Oberursel, then they shipped me here. And yes, I can tell you who won the World Series in 1938. Anything else you need to know?"

"You were at the 182nd?" said Carter, startled. "I don't remember you from there."

"I don't remember you, either. Guess we weren't there at the same time." For a few seconds, Mills' eyes narrowed, and in spite of himself Carter flushed. His departure from the 182nd was a sore point.

"I've been gone a while," he mumbled awkwardly.

There was a brief silence, before Mills said, "You know my name. Do I get to hear yours?"

"Sorry." Carter held out his hand. "I'm Carter, I'm in Barracks 2. Oh, yeah, I already told you that."

Mills gave a soft, dismissive grunt, ignored the offered handshake, and went on with his wash.

For a few seconds, Carter wavered on the brink of retreat. Then he rallied. Even if it wasn't exactly comfortable, he had a job to do. "So, how's things back at the 182nd?" he asked, a little too affably. "The guys still all drink at the Crown and Haddock?"

"Crown and Anchor," said Mills curtly.

"Yeah, that's it. Say, is Colonel Jennings still there?"

"Don't know him. The only colonel round the place is the CO, Colonel Forbes. I never heard of Jennings." As there was actually no such person, it was no surprise. It was just part of the routine to throw out false information and see what the reaction was. So far, Mills was getting all his lines right. Carter fell silent, wondering where to go next. But the new guy had apparently had enough. He wrung out his clothes and hung them over the clothesline at the end of the laundry area. Then he turned to Carter.

"You got any other questions, pal?" he asked. "If not, I've got other stuff to do." And without another word, he walked away, leaving Carter staring after him.

* * *

Without realizing it, Newkirk put much the same question to Cooper as Kinch had to Adams a minute or so earlier. "That chap Mills is a funny sort of bloke," he remarked, watching as Mills went out of sight between the buildings on his way back to his own barracks.

"You don't know the half of it," replied Cooper, with a soft laugh. MacNeill, however, wasn't laughing.

"It ain't right, putting him in here with the rest of us," he growled softly. "I thought the Krauts had places for guys like that. Not saying they're wrong, either."

Newkirk glanced at him, but it was Cooper who answered. "Yeah, that's going a bit too far, Joe. It's not like he's been any trouble so far."

"Yeah, and it better stay that way. Because if he gets any ideas..." MacNeill didn't finish, but the strength with which he wrung the water out of his shirt told its own story.

Kinch might have hesitated to pursue the matter with Adams, but Newkirk had no such scruples. He already had a strong suspicion of what MacNeill was hinting at, but playing dumb was the best way to get more information. "So, he's the one you were talking about yesterday, is he? What's his game, then?"

"What d'you reckon?" replied MacNeill. "He's a goddamn queer, that's all."

"Ah," murmured Newkirk. "Sure of that, are you?"

"He hasn't admitted it," said Cooper. "But of course, he wouldn't. Anyway, nobody's asked him."

"So how do you know he's bent?"

"One of the other fellers found out at the transit camp. There was another flyer from Mills' unit there, he knew all about it," replied Cooper. "Could be he got it wrong, but still, the guy acts like he's got something to hide. All he has to do is come clean, so we know where we stand, right?"

Newkirk shrugged, and made a vaguely affirmative noise. It wasn't quite as simple as Cooper made out. The story might be true, or it might be trumped up out of some kind of malice, but either way the end result would probably the same. Sooner or later, MacNeill was liable to take action, and if any of the other men in Barracks 18 shared his feelings, then Mills could end up in a pretty bad way. And the repercussions would vibrate through the whole of Stalag 13.

* * *

_Dulag (Durchgangslager): transit camp. Although there were several Luftwaffe transit camps, the main center was at Oberursel, near Frankfurt am Main_


	5. Chapter 5

Crowded into the office, Hogan's team watched in silence as he paced back and forth, frowning.

Newkirk lounged against the window frame, relaxed enough apart from the tightness around his mouth. Kinch looked worried, and LeBeau's eyes still betrayed the anger which had come to life during his conversation with Schultz. As for Carter, he'd taken refuge on the upper bunk, and he wasn't giving anything away.

Finally, Hogan stopped in his tracks, and fired a question at LeBeau. "Schultz didn't say definitely that Mills was the man who'd been worked over?"

"He said he didn't know them all yet," replied LeBeau. "He thought they had been fighting. I guess he had it right after all."

"Maybe. But something doesn't add up," said Hogan.

"How do you mean, Colonel?" asked Kinch. "This isn't the first time we've had this kind of thing happen. Not so much with men like Mills, mostly those guys keep it quiet. I guess there's been a few here who we never even knew about. But there's other reasons why a man might find the whole of his barracks turns on him. Remember what happened with Corporal Lau, over in Barracks 5? And I had a few run-ins when I got here, too. Some of the other prisoners didn't appreciate sharing digs with a black man. It can get ugly."

Newkirk straightened up. "Yeah, I remember that. We got them sorted then, no reason we can't sort them now."

"Except this time it's happening in a brand new barracks, among men we don't know anything about," Hogan pointed out. "Which makes it hard to know exactly what's going on, especially with Mills acting as if every man in camp is his enemy."

"I think we know what's going on, _mon colonel_," put in LeBeau. "It's wrong. No matter what kind of a man he is, for them to gang up on him..."

"I'm not sure it's come to that yet," said Hogan. "Adams said there was talk. If things had gone further, I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have been able to keep quiet about it. So if Mills has been roughed up, it was before he got here. It must have happened at the transit camp."

He started pacing again. Then he snapped his fingers. "Carter, what was it he said to you? He was shot down over Saarbrücken, right?"

"That's what he said. Three weeks ago," replied Carter, in a subdued tone.

"Uh-huh. And from then until they brought him here, he was at Dulag Luft Oberursel," Hogan went on. "That's what's been bugging me. Oberursel's bursting at the seams since the Ruhr campaign really got going. They're processing Allied airmen in and out so fast they practically need a revolving door. Now, it makes sense they'd sometimes keep hold of one of the technical guys for a bit longer - a bombardier, say, or a navigator, to try to get a bit more out of him. But Mills is just a rear gunner. Why keep him on ice for three weeks before sending him here?"

"They wanted something from him," said Kinch after a moment. "The question is, what? And did they get what they were after?"

Hogan took a few minutes to respond. "Carter, have another shot at him," he said at last. "If you can get him talking about his time at 182 Squadron, he might loosen up a bit, and maybe let slip what actually happened at Oberursel."

Carter sat upright, turning scarlet. "Colonel...uh...if it's all the same...I mean, I don't think..."

"Do you have a problem, Carter?" asked Hogan, raising his eyebrows.

"W-well...he was pretty darned unfriendly, when I talked to him before," replied Carter. "I just don't know if it'll do any good."

"I'll have a go, if you like," put in Newkirk.

Hogan regarded him with a slight frown. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Look, Colonel, I used to be in music hall in London. There was always a few nancy boys hanging round backstage. They didn't worry me at all. Mind you, I'm not convinced about Mills," Newkirk went on. "Doesn't strike me as the type. But I suppose it takes all kinds."

For a few moments, Hogan considered the offer. "It would be more natural if the approach comes from Carter, seeing as he was at the same airbase," he said at last. "But if he doesn't feel comfortable with it, then we'll just have to compromise. Whatever it was that the Germans kept him so long at Oberursel for, it's likely to be important. We need to find out what happened there. " He turned towards Carter, grave but confident.

Carter refused to meet his eyes. "Okay, I'll talk to him," he mumbled. "But I bet he just tells me to get lost."

"In which case we send in Newkirk," replied Hogan. "Subtle hints like _get lost_ don't work on him."

Newkirk chuckled. "That's true. A little persistence can pay off. Did I ever tell you about this bird I once met in Stratford? Very snooty to begin with, but let me tell you..."

"Later, Newkirk," interrupted Hogan. "If you tell us all the spicy stuff now, we'll have no reason to read your autobiography. For now, let's focus. I want a couple of guys watching the new barracks. They're to let us know the minute there's a chance of speaking to Mills without any of his buddies listening in."

"You can see anyone leaving that building from Barracks 15," observed Kinch.

"Good. Set it up with the barracks chief. As soon as they send word, Carter, that's when you move." Hogan nodded towards the door, a casual gesture his team had learned to recognize as dismissal.

Carter descended from his elevated refuge, and followed his friends out into the common room, where he immediately retreated to his own bunk. The others glanced at him, but left him alone.

"You're really okay with this stuff, Newkirk?" said Kinch.

Newkirk shrugged, as he lit a cigarette. "Why not? They're harmless enough, as long as they keep it to themselves. One or two of them were quite nice lads, as it happens. Always happy to offer some advice, if you didn't know what to give your girl for her birthday." He cocked an eye at Kinch. "Tit for tat, Kinch. What's your opinion?"

"I can't say I'm happy with it," replied Kinch slowly. "But we don't even know if it's true. I don't want to rush into judgement."

He headed off on his errand to Barracks 15. LeBeau had put the coffee pot on the stove, while Newkirk leaned against the end post of the bunk he shared with Carter. Hogan had come out of his office, but he didn't say anything.

"You know, there was this one chap," said Newkirk. "Set dresser, he was, at the Windmill. Married, and all, but sometimes you can just tell. He tried to join up at the beginning of the war, but didn't pass the medical. So he volunteered for the A.F.S. Killed in the Blitz."

"That's a shame," remarked LeBeau. "It takes a brave man to join the fire service. I don't think I could do it."

"Nor me. Makes you think, doesn't it?"

"I know what you guys are doing," Carter interrupted. "Well, cut it out. It's got nothing to do with...I just don't like him, that's all. There's no rule saying a guy has to be pals with every other guy in the place, right? Specially when a guy is just plain rude for no reason."

Newirk and LeBeau exchanged startled looks. "All right, if you say so, Andrew," said Newkirk. "Only it isn't like you to take an instant dislike to a new bloke."

"Well, there's a first time for everything," snapped Carter. "I'll go talk to him, but if you think I'm gonna be best buddies with a feller who can't even be polite, well, you can just forget it."

Hogan took the matter up while Newkirk was still trying to recover from his astonishment. "That's up to you, Carter. But you're not going to get any answers from him if you go in with that kind of attitude. If he's getting a hard time from the rest of his barracks, that's probably why he's got a chip on his shoulder. He won't know who he can trust. Cut him some slack, let him know not everyone's against him, and maybe we can find out what the heck's going on."

"Okay, Colonel," murmured Carter, reddening at the implied rebuke.

For the next few hours, however, it seemed as if he wouldn't get the chance to carry out his assignment. Mills stayed out of sight, and out of reach, in his own barracks, until it was time to turn out for the compulsory exercise period during the afternoon. Even then, he showed no interest in joining any of the activities on offer. He didn't even watch, but remained close to the end of one of the huts, gazing at the woods outside the fence, his expression unreadable.

His barracks mates ignored him, apart from Adams, who made a diffident attempt to involve him in the volleyball game. Mills declined with a shake of the head, and a slightly raised hand, a defensive gesture which seemed to be involuntary.

Hogan, watching from the horseshoe pit, took note of it. It didn't look promising, but he nodded to Carter. "Okay, give it your best shot. The rest of you had better get over to the motor pool. I told Klink we'd do some work on that truck, in return for extra hot water in the showers for a month. Anyway, you'll need the truck tomorrow night. The Braunfeld Bridge is too far away for you to get there on foot, especially carrying the dynamite, the cable and the detonator box."

"You don't think we should put that job off for a few days, sir?" ventured Newkirk, as Carter ambled off. "I mean, with all this fuss over the new prisoners, wouldn't it be better to keep our heads down for a bit?"

"It's a priority assignment, Newkirk," replied Hogan. "We need to delay the troop convoys moving east, and taking out that bridge will stop 'em cold. You go out after lights out, when the new men are all safely in their own hut for the night, so the risk is pretty low. But I don't want a repeat of the Schmeckhof job, so this time you're going to go over that truck and make sure it isn't going to break down. Get going."

As Newkirk headed over to the motor pool with Kinch and LeBeau, Hogan's attention went back to Mills. He had greeted Carter's approach with a clearly visible sigh of exasperation. Hogan could only hope the conversation would improve from there. Had he been able to listen in, he would hardly have been encouraged.

"Hey, buddy, how's it going?" Carter started off, with a fair assumption of cordiality. "Remember me? We met this morning."

"I remember." Mills' eyes glanced past him, towards Hogan.

"Just wanted to see if you were fitting in okay. Seeing as you were at the 182nd, so we're kind of buddies already, right?" Carter's voice faltered slightly, and he flushed. Then he took a deep breath, and plunged on. "How come you're not playing volleyball? Some of your pals look pretty good at it."

"They're not my pals," replied Mills shortly. _And neither are you_, added the glower in his eyes.

"Well, how about...how about something else? They're throwing a basketball round the side of Barracks 9. That's kind of fun," said Carter, aware that the conversation had gone off in the wrong direction, but unsure how get back on track. "Or there's horseshoes. See, the thing is, everyone's meant to do something during the exercise period. You're not supposed to just stand around."

"How about those guys?" Mills jerked his head towards the trio just going into the motor pool enclosure. "They got some kind of game going on in there?"

"Uh...well, no. That's the Kraut's motor workshop. We do the maintenance on their vehicles, and get extra privileges in return. Like we might get extra rations, or more firewood in winter, stuff like that."

"Your colonel fixed that up with the Kommandant?" Mills gave a soft, cynical grunt. "Seems he's got a pretty cosy set-up here. You're doing unpaid work for the Krauts, nobody ever escapes...what's he getting out of it?"

For a few seconds, Carter stared at him in bewilderment. Then he exploded. "Now you just listen, pal. You think you can come round here saying stuff like that? Well, let me tell you something. Colonel Hogan is the best commanding officer I ever saw. Any time he makes a deal with the Kommandant, it's for a good reason. Once you've been here for a while, maybe you'll get that. But if you ever talk about him like that again, boy...well, you just better not, that's all." The outburst trailed off into anticlimax, as the unexpected flare of anger burned itself out.

Mills listened in silence, making no effort to argue. He waited till Carter had finished, then turned and walked away. Carter didn't even try to stop him. He already knew he'd blown it. If the mystery surrounding Mills was going to be solved, it was not going to be Carter who did it.


	6. Chapter 6

"Well, if you want my opinion, Carter, you let Mills off lightly," said Newkirk. "If he'd said anything like that to me, he'd have got back more than just an earful, sergeant or no sergeant."

Carter hunched his shoulders, and didn't answer, but Kinch took it up. "Well, what was he supposed to do, punch the guy on the nose? Right in front of the guards?"

"Nobody's going to punch him on the nose," interjected Hogan. "In the first place, it'll foul up tomorrow's mission if one of you gets thrown in the cooler. And apart from that..." He paused, frowning, then drew a deep breath and let it out. "I hate to admit it, but from where Mills stands, the idea that we're hand in glove with the Krauts probably looks like a fair assumption."

He held up his hands in response to the protests from his men. "Okay, I know. But just for a moment, pretend you don't know about the tunnels, and the travelers' aid operation, and the sabotage and intelligence missions. Just think about Stalag 13 as a prison camp, because as far as Mills knows, that's all it is. A prison camp where even though the security's a joke, the Kommandant's an embarrassment and the only reason the guards aren't crooked is because they're too damned lazy, there's never been a successful escape. Not one."

"I guess it does look a little suspicious," said Kinch, after a thoughtful pause. "So how do we set him straight?"

"That's the question," replied Hogan. "I don't want him to know anything about our operation until we find out what happened to him at the transit camp. It's possible he broke down under interrogation, and if he did then he's too much of a security risk. But at the same time, I don't see him spilling the beans about anything while he thinks we're too cosy with the Krauts. Meanwhile, any minute now he's likely to run foul of his pals in Barracks 18. We don't need the kind of heat an incident like that would bring on. In any case, it's not acceptable, not under my command."

A spark of agreement gleamed in Newkirk's eyes, but Carter looked worried, and Kinch pursed his lips. "What are we going to do about it, Colonel?" he asked.

Hogan sighed softly. "No idea."

"Maybe we could get him moved to another barracks," suggested LeBeau. "If you spoke to Klink..."

Hogan briefly considered the idea, then turned it down. "No, that won't work. Any request for a transfer would need the support of the barracks chief. Right now Jeffries isn't about to admit he can't handle his responsibilities. Anyway, I did a pretty good job of convincing Klink to keep the new prisoners together in one barracks, so getting him to change his mind would need some pretty clever footwork."

Newkirk uttered a short laugh. "Who'd have guessed doing a good job would turn out to be a bad show?"

"It's been known to happen," said Hogan, with a slight grin. "Okay, we'll just have to work with what we've got. The friendly approach isn't working with Mills, so let's see what authority might do. I'll give him a try myself tomorrow. Kinch, you see what you can do with Adams. He seems well-disposed towards Mills, and he trusts you. See if you can talk him into letting us know if there's trouble brewing over there."

"Will do. Anything else?" asked Kinch.

"Yeah, we still need to keep Barracks 18 under surveillance. If we know something's about to happen, we can at least try to head it off. Kinch, you set that up. The rest of you can focus on tomorrow night's assignment for now. That goes ahead, no matter what else is going on." Hogan paused, and looked at his watch. "Okay, that's all. Go find something to do until lights out."

Newkirk and LeBeau went on the word, Carter a little more slowly. Kinch lingered at the door, regarding his chief with a troubled look in his eye.

"What's up, Kinch?" asked Hogan.

Kinch hesitated, then closed the door. "Colonel, what happens if all this talk about Mills reaches the guards? What if Klink hears about it?"

"You know the answer to that, Kinch," replied Hogan. "He'll have Mills transferred to another Stalag before the guy has time to breathe." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I guess if he does turn out to be a security risk, that'd be one way of getting rid of him."

"You don't think maybe it'd be better to move him on anyway?" suggested Kinch. "Don't get me wrong. Like I said before, I don't want to pass judgement. But the word's already around camp, and any way you look at it, he's gonna have a hard time of it here. At least in another prison camp he'll get a fresh start, right?"

"Yeah," said Hogan grimly. "A fresh start, with a notation on his file that could get him sent to a concentration camp. Because it doesn't matter whether the story's true or not. If Klink hears about it, it goes on Mills' record."

"And the Gestapo have access to all prisoner records," said Kinch. "But Mills is a prisoner of war."

"That's right. And prisoners of war are protected by the articles of the Geneva Convention," replied Hogan. "Except when they're not. You know that as well as anyone, Kinch. I'm not prepared to gamble a man's life on the chance that they'll play by the rules. Once we figure this out, then we'll decide what to do about Mills. He may have to go, but it's not going to be like that."

Kinch nodded slowly. "I guess we'll come up with something. Good night, Colonel."

He went out of the office, into the smoky hubbub of the main barracks. "Where's Carter?" he asked.

"Gone down below," replied LeBeau, who was cleaning his shoes, while Newkirk had joined in the poker game at the table in the middle of the barracks. "He said he wanted to put everything ready for tomorrow night."

"I thought he had everything organized."

"Well, that's what he said. I guess he's a little embarrassed because his attempts to make friends with Mills went so badly."

"If you ask me," observed Newkirk, "all this chat about Mills is getting on his wick. He's a little straight-laced, is our Andrew. You know how he gets all embarrassed whenever the conversation gets a bit spicy. And that's just when we're talking about women. The idea of blokes having it away with other blokes is probably doing his head in."

"Oh, come off it, Newkirk," said Kinch. "There's no way Carter doesn't know that stuff goes on. Nobody's that innocent, especially in a prison camp."

Newkirk just shrugged. "He may know it goes on, but that doesn't mean he's going to want to hear about it. You know what I think? I've got nothing against Mills, but he's starting to look like a bloody nuisance. The sooner we get this sorted and get back to business as usual, the better."

* * *

At nine o'clock, the lights went out in the prisoners' barracks, and an hour later the men in Barracks 18 were all sleeping, except one.

Mills lay perfectly still, listening for any sound which might indicate that anyone else was awake. Periodically, the spotlight from the guard tower passed across the front of the barracks, shining through the gaps between the timbers. By counting his own breaths, Mills had worked out roughly how long the interval was between each pass. He estimated he'd have about three minutes of darkness in which to find cover before the open space between the huts was lit up again.

If he could only get inside the motor workshop Carter had told him about, there was a chance. There had to be tools in there, and perhaps there would be something he could use to cut the wire. The woods were only just outside the fence.

It was a slim chance, but it was all he had, and even if the guards spotted him before he made it to the trees, or if he fell foul of a patrol, maybe they'd do him a favor, and shoot him.

He tried to dismiss that thought as soon as it came up. But it lingered at the back of his mind as a last resort, a way out if all else failed.

He raised his head, then sat up cautiously. Hearing nothing but the sounds of sleeping men all around him, he groped under his bed for his boots, then, grasping them in one hand, he rose, and padded barefoot across towards the door. As soon as the spotlight passed again, he'd make his break.

_No prisoner ever escapes from Stalag 13_. Mills' stomach tightened, at the memory of where he'd first heard those words, and from whom. He closed his eyes, and leaned against the door for a few seconds, his hand resting on the latch.

_Even if it's true,_ he thought, _what have I got to lose?_

He'd lost track of the time. The light must be almost due.

"Going somewhere?"

Mills' eyes snapped open. MacNeill was standing just behind him, his face illuminated by the cigarette lighter in his hand. As Mills involuntarily stepped away from the door, one of the other prisoners reached for the light switch.

"Must have a date," he sniggered. "One of the guards, maybe."

"Yeah, sewer rats like him don't take long to find their own kind," said MacNeill. "Which one is it, Mills? The short one with the squint, or the fat one? I guess you don't get to be too choosy, right?"

"Screw you," replied Mills in a low voice, tightening his grip on the boots in his hand. Most of the prisoners were still in their bunks, watching the confrontation, but two others had already joined MacNeill. The boots weren't much of a weapon, but at least they were something.

MacNeill's brow lowered, and he doubled his fists, but before he could make a move, Cooper spoke up from the other end of the room. "Take it easy, Joe. You don't want the guards coming in to break up a fight. He's not worth the trouble."

For a few moments, it looked as if MacNeill was willing to take the chance, but then the door of the barracks chief's private cubicle flew open. "What's going on out here?" demanded Jeffries, his voice louder and shriller than he probably intended.

"Nothing, sir." Cooper came forward, with a warning look at MacNeill. "Mills just got a little confused about the curfew rules."

Jeffries' eyes flickered from MacNeill to Mills, and he bit his lower lip. "You'd better get back to your bunks, all of you," he said at last. "Turn the light out, before the guards see it. Mills, give me those boots. You can get them back tomorrow, before roll call. And I don't want any more trouble from you, understand?"

Mills surrendered the boots, and retreated slowly to his bunk. Jeffries returned to his cubicle, and a sleepless, angry silence claimed the darkened barracks.

For some time, Mills continued to count the seconds between each sweep of the spotlight. It kept him from thinking, and right now the last thing he wanted to do was to think. The door of opportunity which had offered such a narrow opening was now firmly closed against him.

They had him boxed in all right, just like that Gestapo son of a bitch had promised.


	7. Chapter 7

Among the rules at Stalag 13, the one which was most often ignored by the prisoners was the regulation against cooking in the barracks. There was in fact a mess hall for the prisoners, where the very basic sustenance provided by the authorities was doled out - thin, lukewarm gruel for breakfast, and for all other meals, something barely identifiable as soup, accompanied by heavy dark bread . Most days, at least some of the men would make do with this unappetizing menu, but a larger number contrived their own meals on the stoves in their huts, sometimes using the meager mess hall provisions as the basis. They had the contents of their Red Cross packages, as well as their own illicit supplies from town, and most of them ate pretty well.

The new prisoners hadn't yet set themselves up for home cooking, and had been taking their meals in the mess hall, or as Newkirk described it, dicing with death.

A little before thirteen hundred hours, Kinch came into Hogan's quarters. "The surveillance team just sent word, Colonel. Jeffries and his men are on their way to the mess hall. All except Mills. Apart from roll call, he hasn't left the barracks all day. If you want to catch him on his own, now's probably a good time."

"Thanks, Kinch." Hogan was relaxing on his bunk, reading to pass the time. He closed the book, laid it aside and descended to floor level. "Is that LeBeau's vegetable stew I can smell?"

"Yeah, he's keeping it simple for lunch today. Not that anyone's complaining about it, except Newkirk."

"Who only grumbles out of principle," said Hogan.

He went out of the office, and headed for the door, but paused to peek into the big pot on the stove, and savor the rising aroma.

"It's not quite ready, _mon colonel_," said LeBeau.

"That's okay. I've got to pay a call on someone," replied Hogan gravely. "Keep it hot till I get back." He zipped his jacket closed, turned up his collar, and left the barracks.

He had no particular plan in mind as to how this conversation would go. Mills had made short work of Carter's overtures. It seemed unlikely he'd be as brusque towards a senior officer, but it wasn't impossible. Hogan sure as hell wasn't going to put up with outright insubordination, but he had a feeling he'd have to allow more leeway than he usually did.

This belief was strengthened as he came round the corner of the row of buildings which stood in front of the new huts. Mills was outside, leaning against the wall of Barracks 18, his arms loosely folded across his body. He was staring at the stretch of fence visible beyond the rows of buildings, and didn't notice he had a visitor until the crunch of footsteps on the gritty, compacted earth prompted him to turn his head. His eyes widened, and he made a slight move towards the door of the barracks. Then, apparently realizing Hogan would simply follow him in there, he came to attention, his face as unreadable as ever.

"At ease, sergeant," said Hogan. "You're not on parade." Mills relaxed only a little, and kept his eyes fixed on Hogan's left shoulder.

Hogan regarded him keenly for a few seconds. "You're Mills, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"How are you getting on? Any problems, anything you need?"

"No, sir. Thank you."

"Good. Actually, I wanted to have a word with you," Hogan went on , in a disinterested voice. "Carter tells me you were at Dulag Luft Oberursel."

Mills' eyes flickered slightly. "Sir."

"How long were you there?"

"Since...since I was shot down, sir."

"You told Carter about three weeks, is that right?"

"Something like that." Mills' gaze had now shifted away from Hogan altogether, and any reaction to the line of questioning was hidden behind his lowered eyelids.

"That's longer than I was there," remarked Hogan. "Ten days. Eight of them in the interrogation center, getting acquainted with the Gestapo, which wasn't much fun. I guess you know about that, too."

"No, sir, I don't," replied Mills impassively. But Hogan was watching too closely to be fooled. Mills had flushed at the very mention of the Gestapo, and his tension was obvious. Putting it together with the bruises Schultz had reported seeing, Hogan had no doubt. This man knew from experience what a Gestapo interrogation was like. Hogan, thinking it through, found himself wondering again whether Mills had broken under questioning. If he had, it might account for his attitude now, but it was unlikely he'd admit it without further pressure being applied.

Time to change tack. "What about the rest of your crew?" asked Hogan. There was a slight gruffness in his tone which hadn't been there before. The question had to be asked, but he knew it would be as painful for Mills to hear the question as it was for Hogan to ask it.

The tightening of Mills' brow, and the long pause before he answered, confirmed it. "Most of them didn't make it."

"I'm sorry," replied Hogan. Just for a few seconds, his mind went back to his own air crew. Mills' reaction chimed in tune with his own unspoken grief.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Whatever thoughts were in Mills' head, it seemed they weren't happy. Hogan was suddenly struck by something Kinch had said shortly before: _Apart from roll call, he hasn't left the barracks all day_.

"When did you last eat?" he asked abruptly.

"Sir?" replied Mills, his eyes widening at the unexpected question. Then he colored up again, and looked at the ground between his feet.

Hogan sighed, and folded his arms. "Look, Mills, I know the food at the mess hall isn't exactly five star. I also know getting captured and sent here was a pretty rough deal. But let me give you some advice. Just because you're a prisoner, doesn't mean you've lost. Once you give up on yourself, that's when the bastards win. And it's the guys who keep their strength up who are most likely to see it through."

He paused, hoping the words had gotten through. Then, receiving no response, he said, "Okay, sergeant. Come with me."

"Is that an order, sir?" murmured Mills, without looking up.

"If it has to be." Hogan turned and walked away. He was by no means confident Mills would follow, but he didn't look back. At the corner of Barracks 16 he stopped, allowing Mills to catch up, before continuing on towards Barracks 2.

"Blimey, Colonel, you weren't gone long," Newkirk began, as the door opened. "No luck, then? I could have told you..." He trailed off, as Mills appeared in the doorway behind Hogan.

"You've met Newkirk, right, Mills?" Hogan looked round the barracks with a smile on his lips, and a warning in his eyes. "And you know Kinch and Carter as well. But I don't think you've met our chef. LeBeau, how's lunch coming on? Mills here doesn't care for the slop they're dishing out at the mess hall. So I've invited him here for a decent meal. That's okay, isn't it?"

LeBeau, who had been staring at him in speechless astonishment, pulled himself together. "Absolutely okay, _mon colonel_. I made plenty."

"Good, good. Have a seat, Mills," said Hogan. "Move up a bit, fellers, make some room."

Mills glanced towards the door, another fleeting shadow passing across his face. "Colonel, please, I'd rather not..."

"Sit down, Mills," replied Hogan. His manner was still genial, but left no room for argument, and Mills, looking as if he'd unexpectedly found himself trapped, took his place next to Newkirk, with Carter at the other end of the bench and Kinch sitting opposite.

There was an uncomfortable silence, then Kinch took the lead. "So, Mills, you're from Indiana."

Mills took a moment to analyze the remark. Finding it apparently harmless, he gave a curt reply: "Fort Wayne."

"You know, Carter lived in Muncie before he joined up, so that's something else you have in common," Kinch went on, but on seeing the reproach in Carter's eyes, he redirected the conversation. "I grew up in Detroit, never lived anywhere else till I got drafted."

"Well, that's war for you, Kinch," said Newkirk. "It really broadens your horizons. Take a bloke like me, for instance. If anyone had told me, a few years ago, that I'd end up living on the continent, I'd have told 'em they were barmy. But here I am, large as life."

"And twice as loud," Kinch tossed back at him.

"Just trying to fit in with the rest of you," chuckled Newkirk. "Nobody likes a misery guts, do they?"

"You never give us a chance to find out," put in LeBeau, bustling over with a loaf of bread on a wooden board. "Carter, you were supposed to set the table."

"Sorry, Louis." Carter jumped up, bumping the table and setting it to rocking.

"Clumsy!" grumbled Newkirk. He steadied the table with both hands, and glowered at the culprit. "It's just as well we're not using the good dinner service today. You really are a clot sometimes, Carter."

The pecking order in Barracks 2 had little to do with actual rank, but this was obviously a new concept to Mills. He looked at Newkirk, taking in the stripes on his sleeve, then turned a puzzled gaze towards Carter, who was rummaging in one of the lockers. Carter caught the look, went scarlet, and hastened to lay out plates and cutlery, with so little regard for accuracy that Newkirk ended up with three forks.

Kinch read the confusion in Mills' eyes, interpreted it correctly, but chose to sidestep it in favor of a different topic of conversation. "We're a little more formal at meals here than some of the other huts. We've got a master chef on the premises, and he's a little finicky about table manners. But it's worth it."

"That's a matter of opinion," said Newkirk, narrowing his eyes in suspicion as LeBeau heaved the big pot off the stove and dumped it in the middle of the table. "What's this muck, then?"

"_Ragoût de légumes aux lentilles_," replied the Frenchman.

"Not again?"

"You can go to the mess hall if you prefer." LeBeau ladled some stew onto a plate and placed it in front of Mills, and smirked as Newkirk, with a long-suffering air, passed his own dish along.

A general scrimmage broke out, as the rest of the barracks made a rush for the remaining space around the table. "Settle down, fellers," said Hogan, as he took the end seat, with Kinch on one side and Mills on the other.

Carter had taken his portion and withdrawn to his bunk, but LeBeau managed to squeeze himself in between Hogan and Mills, excusing himself after the fact: "I'm not crowding you, am I?"

Mills shook his head, and directed a searching glance at Hogan, who grinned. "Eat it while it's hot," he advised, and set to work on his own share. Everyone else was doing the same, and after a few seconds of hesitation, Mills made a tentative start.

Around him, the conversation continued, bouncing from one topic to the next. Newkirk, unable to find fault with the _ragoût_, had turned his attention to the bread, which clearly didn't meet with his approval.

"Don't blame me for that," replied LeBeau, leaning forward to talk around Mills. "It's standard camp issue. Take it up with Klink."

"Well, that's just lovely," growled the Englishman. "You know what sawdust does to my digestion?"

"Spare us the details, Newkirk," said Hogan. "We all know what sawdust does to your digestion."

He thought he caught the slightest twitch of Mills' lips. Well, if they'd almost gotten a laugh out of him, that was something. He certainly looked more relaxed. But almost as soon as he'd finished eating - and he didn't eat much - the tension started to return.

"What's up, Mills?" asked Hogan, seeing him cast an anxious look towards the door.

Mills attempted to stand up, but was stuck between LeBeau, Newkirk and the table. "I should probably get back. The others will be back from the mess hall any minute."

"So what?" said Kinch. "They don't need you to check 'em in, do they?"

"I..uh..I'm not really supposed to be here," mumbled Mills, after a few seconds. "I guess the Krauts wouldn't like it." That was an excuse. He was obviously more worried about his barracks mates than the guards.

"They're not likely to know about it," Hogan pointed out. But he nodded to LeBeau, who slid off the bench to let Mills out.

"Thanks," muttered Mills, as he edged past. He looked back at the remains of the stew, hesitated, then added. "It was good. Thanks." There was a grave, troubled look in his eyes as he glanced at Hogan, then he gave a small, unconvincing smile, nodded his head in a kind of leave-taking, and left the barracks.

Hogan followed him out. "Mills, wait up," he called, as Mills reached the corner of the barracks.

A visible movement of Mills' shoulders indicated a sigh, whether of impatience or resignation wasn't clear. But he stopped, and with a resumption of his usual guarded expression, waited to hear what Hogan had to say.

Hogan didn't rush it. He took a moment to study the impassive face, reconsidering his earlier impressions. "Listen, Mills, it's pretty clear there's something on your mind," he said at last. "If it's a personal matter, then it's your own business. But I'm getting a strong impression that it's not personal. Something happened at Dulag Luft while you were there. Whatever it was, you need to come clean about it, preferably sooner rather than later."

Mills' eyebrows had drawn in as he listened. He wavered, met Hogan's steady gaze, seemed about to speak, but then abruptly pinched his lips together. "Nothing happened at Dulag Luft," he said. "Can I go now, sir?"

"Yes, you can go." There was no point in Hogan pressing the attack now. But as he watched Mills walk away, he began to wonder exactly what the man was holding back. It still seemed plausible that the Gestapo had broken him down, but now Hogan wasn't so sure. Guilt, shame, fear of discovery, he'd seen none of it. Mills had looked him in the eye, fair and square. Something else had prevented him from breaking his silence.

"Well, Colonel, did you get anything?" asked Kinch, as Hogan returned to the barracks.

"No, not yet," replied Hogan. "And it's going to be harder than I thought."

"What's his problem, then?" said Newkirk, with a roll of his eyes. "Anyone would think he didn't trust us."

"That's it exactly, Newkirk." Hogan folded his arms, his expression hardening. "Right now, I don't think he trusts anyone. If we're ever going to get through to him, somehow we have to convince him we're the good guys."


	8. Chapter 8

"Hey, Sarge, can I talk to you?"

It was getting late and Kinch had come over to the shower block for a quick wash-down before curfew. He usually got over at least once a day, even in winter. Although use of the showers was restricted to certain hours, the taps over the long trough at one end of the building were always operating, and Kinch was just one of a number who preferred a cold wash to no wash at all.

As it happened, he had thought himself alone, until he heard the timid voice addressing him from the doorway. He wiped his face with one hand, and looked over his shoulder.

"What's up, Adams?" he asked, reaching for the threadbare towel hanging on a nail above the trough.

"Uh...nothing. Forget it, it doesn't matter."

"Obviously it does," replied Kinch, "otherwise you wouldn't be here." He finished scrubbing the towel over his chest and arms, and pulled his undershirt over his head. Then he glanced at Adams. "Something's bugging you. You want to talk to someone, but not anyone in your barracks. And you want it to be in confidence, which is why you came in here when I was alone. Am I right?"

Adams wavered. "I don't want to squeal on anyone. It's just I'm scared something's gonna happen, something bad. I don't know what to do, Sarge."

"Okay, take it easy," said Kinch. "Let's see if we can work this out." He paused, frowning slightly as he regarded the young soldier. "Something bad, you said. How bad?" Then, seeing the indecision in Adams' face, he went on. "I know there's a lot of bad feeling among the guys in your barracks. Is it something to do with that?"

"There was some trouble last night," said Adams, in a low voice. "I don't want to say who it was, but I thought for sure they were going to give him a real whaling. Thing is, I just froze up, Sarge. I couldn't move a muscle. I just sat there, waiting for Mills get beaten up...oh, crap...I mean..."

"It's alright, Adams, I already guessed who you meant. It doesn't take a genius to work out who's the most likely man in Barracks 18 to find himself on the wrong end of a hiding. But it didn't happen."

Adams shook his head. "They backed off when Lieutenant Jeffries showed up. But I don't think that's the end of it. A couple of 'em have been getting together and talking. I couldn't get close enough to hear what they said, but they kept looking at Mills. I bet anything you like, they'll go for him again, first chance they get, and I don't think Jeffries is likely to butt in the next time. He was real mad at Mills."

Kinch couldn't disagree with him there. "Any chance you could get some of the others to stand up to them? Even if they don't care what happens to Mills, you could point out that if anything happens, and the Krauts find out about it, the whole barracks ends up getting punished."

"Cooper might play along. He was the only one who spoke up last night. But, gee, Sarge, I don't know," said Adams uneasily. "He didn't seem so worried about Mills, more about getting in trouble with the guards. And I don't know as they'll listen to me. Far as they're concerned, I'm just a big dumb kid from the sticks, who doesn't know anything."

"Well, they got that wrong," said Kinch. But he didn't press the point, knowing how likely it was that the troublemakers would turn on any man who stood up to them on Mills' behalf. It would help nobody if Adams got himself roughed up. "Tell me something. You're really okay with Mills?"

Adams went red. "Well, I don't exactly like it, it seems wrong for a guy to be like that. But my pa always says, no matter what people say about a man, you should always give him a chance before you write him off. And it's pretty tough, ganging up on a feller who's only here because he was doing his bit for the war, just like the rest of us."

Kinch nodded. "That's about how I see it."

"I guess it looked a bit fishy, though," Adams went on. "Seeing as he was all set to sneak out of the barracks, I mean."

"Who?"

"Mills. That's what started it off last night. He wouldn't say where he was going. The other guys said some stuff about him maybe meeting up with some of the guards." Adams had blushed again, leaving Kinch in no doubt of what had actually been implied. The kid was almost as easily embarrassed as Carter. "But I've been thinking, and I don't see any sense in it, not in the middle of the night when he's likely to get caught leaving the barracks. They got all day for that sort of stuff."

"Yeah." Kinch pursed his lips in thought. "Okay, Adams. I'll take it to Colonel Hogan, and see if he can fix something up. In the meantime, keep your eyes open, and if you think there's going to be trouble, let us know. It's getting late, so you'd better get back to your barracks." Then, recognizing uncertainty in the young man's eyes, he added. "Don't worry. You did the right thing, telling me."

"Thanks, Sarge." Adams slipped away, and Kinch, his head in a spin over this new complication, headed back to bring Hogan up to date.

His barracks mates were engaged in the usual activities which served to pass the time until lights out: card games, letter-writing, reading. Hogan had joined the crush around the table, listening while Newkirk held forth about one of his more outlandish romantic escapades. Any guard who looked in would see nothing to indicate that a few hours from now, some of these men would be miles from camp, sabotaging a bridge.

Kinch hung the damp towel over the end of his bunk to dry. Turning round, he caught Hogan's eye, and jerked his head slightly towards the colonel's quarters.

"... well, suffice to say, from then on her contortionist act had a whole new twist in it," Newkirk finished up, earning a shout of laughter from his audience.

"Okay, Newkirk, that's enough for one evening," said Hogan, with a grin. "Any more, and nobody's going to get any sleep tonight." He stood up, nodded to Kinch, and went into his office. Kinch followed.

"What's up, Kinch?" asked Hogan as soon as the door was closed.

Without any preamble, Kinch repeated the information he'd gotten from Adams. Hogan listened, his eyebrows drawing in as he got the picture. For a minute or so after Kinch had finished, he sat in silence, pondering.

"What are we going to do, Colonel?" said Kinch at last. "I don't like this business of Mills trying to leave the barracks at night. It seems kind of suspicious to me."

"Me, too," murmured Hogan. "But I think Adams is on the right track. In any case, Mills hasn't been here long enough to get that well acquainted with the guards. My guess is, he was planning to go over the wire. He seems desperate enough to risk it. And if it was that, then he may try again."

"But we're not going to let him, right?"

"Right," said Hogan decisively. "The rule stands, no escapes. Anyway, he wouldn't stand a chance, not without clothes or documents." He paused for a moment, his brow furrowed and his arms folded across his chest. "We can't do anything until that bridge is taken care of. It's a priority assignment, and I'm not about to jeopardize it by starting trouble in camp while we've got three men outside. First thing tomorrow, I'll have another little chat with Lieutenant Jeffries, and remind him that his responsibilities extend to all the men in his barracks."

"You think that'll be enough, Colonel?" asked Kinch.

"I doubt it, but it might buy us some time to get to the bottom of this whole mess." Hogan nodded towards the door. "Don't say anything to the others. I don't want them distracted while they're out on a mission."

"Right, Colonel."

The sabotage team left on schedule, shortly after lights out. They had been doing this for long enough for it to feel like business as usual. Even Carter was unusually matter-of-fact about it, considering it involved explosives.

"He still thinks he made a mess of things with Mills, Colonel," remarked Kinch, as he and Hogan returned to the barracks after seeing off the expedition. "But I'm not so sure it was his fault."

Hogan paused at the foot of the ladder. "It wasn't. No matter who tried to talk to Mills, it wasn't going to work out. Something's really got him spooked." He ascended to the barracks, and waited at the top for Kinch to join him. "You'd better get some sleep," he said, speaking quietly to avoid disturbing the rest of the men. "The boys won't be back till..."

He broke off abruptly. After a couple of seconds he whispered, "Close the tunnel." Then he strode over and opened the door. For a moment, he stared at the young man who stood outside, shivering.

"Sorry, sir," Adams stammered. "It's just, Sergeant Kinchloe said if there was trouble..."

"Now?" said Hogan sharply. "Okay, I'm coming. Kinch..."

"Right with you, Colonel," said Kinch. "Watch out for the searchlight."

Keeping well in the shadows, Hogan made his way swiftly between the buildings, with Adams and Kinch just behind him.

The skeletons of the two unfinished huts gleamed in the moonlight. Barracks 18 appeared to be quiet, but as the three men neared it, a gleam of light escaped between the ill-fitting shutters on one of the windows, and the sound of raised voices reached them. Hogan glanced in both directions to make sure no guards were in sight, then ran to the door.

The spectacle that greeted him, illuminated only by a couple of wildly unsteady flashlights, looked bad enough. At first sight it seemed as if most of the inmates of the barracks were involved in a free fight.

"What the hell is going on here?" Hogan demanded in a low furious voice.

The men at the back of the crowd drew aside. Apparently they were just spectators. The active participants, however, weren't about to welcome the interruption. One of them, his fists still clenched, turned on the intruder with a snarl of fury: "Mind your own goddamned business, pal."

"This is my business, Sergeant," replied Hogan, just as one of the flashlight beams steadied, shining directly on him. MacNeill froze, his eyes widening, then stepped back, squaring his jaw, an angry scowl on his face.

Hogan looked past him to the center of the disturbance. MacNeill and a couple of others Hogan couldn't put names to had clearly come together as a team, with a common purpose and a common enemy. Their target had taken a defensive position in the corner between the outside wall and one of the bunks, but without support he couldn't have held it for long.

It was too dark to tell whether he'd taken any damage, but he was breathing hard, and looked to be unsteady on his feet.

For a few seconds, Hogan surveyed the scene. "Well?" he said at last. "I asked a question, I expect an answer."

"Just a little disagreement, sir," murmured Cooper, from somewhere in the background. "I guess it probably got a bit out of hand."

"Yeah, I can see that. Some of you seem to have forgotten who we're actually at war with."

"He's been asking for it," growled MacNeill. "He's..."

"I don't want to hear it," snapped Hogan. "This isn't some bar-room in Poughkeepsie, it's a prison camp, and like it or not, you're still in the army. You have a problem, you sort it out without getting into an all-in brawl. Is that clear?" He waited for a moment, but none of the men dared argue. "Good. Where's Jeffries?"

"In his quarters, sir," said Cooper

Without another word, Hogan stalked across to the door of the little cubicle, while Kinch moved to stand between Mills and the rest of the men. "You'd better let it drop," he said. "The guards would just love to see you fighting among yourselves, but that doesn't mean they won't break it up with a few bullets, and they're not that particular about who they shoot. Lights out was an hour ago, I suggest you all hit the sack."

From the malevolent glare MacNeill sent towards Mills, it wasn't over. But with the rest of the men already dispersing, and Kinch holding his ground with unshaken resolution, he seemed unwilling to press his luck. Adams had slipped in unobserved, and was already in his own bunk, looking like he'd never left it. Mills remained where he was, as though preparing himself for a renewal of the attack.

He was probably right, Kinch thought. Unless Hogan could knock some sense into Jeffries, and get him to take charge of the situation, it was a safe bet hostilities would resume the minute Barracks 18 was left to itself.


	9. Chapter 9

"How far were you going to let them go, Jeffries?" asked Hogan.

He had opened one of the shutters to let the moon shine into the lieutenant's quarters. By its cold light he was able to study the young barracks chief, who was sitting on the lower bunk. Jeffries' discomfiture showed clearly in the stiffness of his posture, and in the way he avoided meeting Hogan's eyes.

"How the hell was I supposed to stop them?" he muttered, after a few moments of silence. "If I told them to lay off, they'd just wait till my back was turned and start in again. Anyway, you can't make them get along if they've got differences. It's better to let 'em sort it out now, fair and square."

"One man against half a dozen? That's not exactly fair and square. Give 'em a length of rope, and you've got all the elements of a lynching party. Which brings me back to my previous question. How much rope were you prepared to give them?"

"It wouldn't have gotten that far." Jeffries' skin glistened in the silvery light. "Look, you don't understand, Colonel. There's something wrong about the guy. Maybe you haven't heard..."

"Rumors? I've heard them."

"Well, in that case, you already know how it is. Guys like that, they can't be trusted. You can't blame the other men for giving him a rough time. And there's something shifty about Mills. He may even have already sold out to the Krauts."

"What makes you say that?"

"He tried to leave the barracks last night after lights out, and he wouldn't say where he was going. He hasn't admitted anything, but he acts like he's got something to hide. You know how those guys are. They don't have what it takes to stand up to pressure. All the Gestapo would have to do is lean on him a bit, and he'd snap like a twig. Seems to me the best thing to do is make sure he's more scared of us than of them."

For a few seconds, Hogan didn't reply. "You may be right about Mills," he said at last. "But you haven't been here long, so you don't know how it works. You've got to handle problems of this kind discreetly, otherwise they can get complicated. As the officer in charge of the barracks, if things get out of hand, you could find yourself in a whole lot of trouble over it." He paused, as if assessing the best way to handle the situation. "Okay, Jeffries. You and your men here have done as much as can be expected of you, but it's best if I take it from here."

"What do you mean, sir?" said Jeffries uncertainly.

"I mean it's no longer your responsibility. If you're right, then it's not enough just to intimidate the guy. There may be other steps that have to be taken." Hogan gazed out of the window, as detached as if they were talking about the weather. "Steps that are above your authority, lieutenant. As the senior prisoner-of-war officer, I'm the one who has to decide how to deal with any bad apples amongst the prisoners. That way, if there are any consequences, I'm in a position to take care of them."

He turned away from the window. "I'll arrange for Mills to be transferred to Barracks 2, so I can keep him under my own supervision. Now, that could take a day or so, but with feeling running so high among your men, they may decide they don't want to wait that long. So we'd better get him out of here right away. Officially, he's still one of yours, but I'll take him with me now."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Jeffries broke out.

"Unless you've got a reason for wanting him here." Hogan smiled slightly. "Do you have a reason, lieutenant?"

"No, sir. But if you want my advice, don't let him put one over on you. I'm telling you, Colonel, he can't be trusted. He'll say anything to get out of trouble."

Hogan almost laughed aloud, but he held it back. No point in antagonizing Jeffries now, when he'd almost gotten him convinced they were both on the same wavelength. "Don't worry, Jeffries. Anything he says, I'll be looking at it very closely."

He went back out to the common area, where Kinch was still standing guard. Mills hadn't moved, except to lean a little more heavily against the bunk. Hogan regarded him keenly, but it was too dark to make out any details.

"Get your kit together," he said quietly.

"Why?" Mills' answer was no louder, but it resonated with hostility.

"Because I told you to. Lieutenant Jeffries has told me all about you. You're already in plenty of trouble, soldier. Don't make things worse for yourself." That was for the benefit of the other prisoners, including Jeffries who had followed Hogan out of his quarters. It also had the merit of being true. Hogan didn't know how yet, but he felt certain Mills was in trouble, and sinking fast.

There was no way of knowing how much of this Mills understood. But he pushed himself upright, then stooped, with an involuntary, half-suppressed gasp, and pulled a kit bag from under his bunk.

"Is that all?" asked Hogan. He had sensed Kinch's disquiet at this development. As a matter of fact he shared it. It wasn't a good night on which to bring an untested character into Barracks 2.

"Just my boots," muttered Mills, glancing at Jeffries, who went back into his cubicle. He returned a few seconds later, and tossed the boots on the floor at Mills' feet. Why Jeffries even had them, Hogan didn't want to know.

"All right, Jeffries. You can leave it in my hands," he said. "Mills, you're coming with me. Bring him along, Kinch. The rest of you, get some sleep, and try not to start another ruckus before morning." Leaving this as a final order, Hogan slipped out of the hut, and followed the other two in their furtive passage between the buildings, until they reached the safety of Barracks 2.

The men here were just as far from sleep as those in the new barracks, but the atmosphere held none of the menace Hogan had just stepped out of. He drew a deep breath. "My office," he said to Kinch. "And then go and get the medic. One of you others, watch the door."

He went on through to close the window shutter in his quarters, before switching on the desk lamp, which was less likely to be seen from outside than the ceiling light. Then he took stock of their new, unofficial barracks resident. Kinch had set Mills down on the lower bunk. He sat at a slight lean, one arm pressed across his ribs.

"You're hurt," said Hogan. Mills shook his head and straightened up, but the movement ended in a sharp intake of breath.

"It's nothing," he muttered, meeting Hogan's eyes, his own guarded but unflinching.

"Yeah, that's how it looks," replied Hogan dispassionately. "I think we'll let the medic make that call."

"There's no need. I'm fine. Sir."

"Maybe, but it can't hurt to make sure. It's not up for discussion." At the first sign of renewed protest, Hogan's tone sharpened, and Mills fell silent. For a few minutes neither of them spoke, but Hogan, watching closely, noted how Mills' eyelids were drooping, and how every so often he swayed forward a little, then jerked awake again.

Presently, Kinch came back in. "I've got Sergeant Wilson, colonel," he said, with a glance at Mills.

Hogan, who was leaning against the desk, straightened up. "Thanks, Kinch," he murmured, and went out into the darkness of the main barracks.

Wilson, although not an inmate of Barracks 2, was a trusted man, and Hogan had no hesitation in speaking to him. "Wilson, we've got a problem. One of the new prisoners, Mills, is in my quarters. He's been in a fight with some of the others, and it wasn't safe to leave him there."

"Badly hurt?" asked Wilson, getting straight down to business.

"I don't think so, but it gives us an excuse to check him over. According to Schultz, he already had bruises when he arrived, so he may have been worked over at Dulag Luft."

"Okay, I'll have a look." Wilson went into the office, and a moment later Kinch came out.

"Colonel, I don't like this," he said. "We still haven't cleared Mills. What happens if he's still awake when the boys get back from Braunfeld?"

"I doubt he'll last that long. I've been watching him, and he can hardly keep his eyes open," replied Hogan. "In any case, I couldn't leave him there. If we're going to win his trust, he has to be convinced we're on his side. Besides, MacNeill and his pals wouldn't have waited two minutes."

"Well, how are we going to manage it?" asked Kinch.

Hogan thought for a moment. "You'd better go back down to the tunnel now, while Wilson's keeping him occupied. When the boys get back, warn them to keep the noise down before you let them come up. Mills will be sleeping in my quarters, so he won't see anything."

"You don't think we should give him a couple of those knockout pills we use for the Krauts?"

"I don't think he'd take them," said Hogan, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not from me, anyway. Maybe from Wilson. But I don't want to start him getting all paranoid again, just when... I'll figure something out."

"Okay, Colonel," murmured Kinch, and after a few moments, he headed to the tunnel entrance.

Hogan leaned against one of the spare bunks, his arms folded, eyes half closed. His hand had been forced tonight, and tomorrow he faced the major hurdle of making Mills' transfer official. But maybe this was the break they needed.

If Mills would only accept that Hogan was trying to help him, it would be a start towards getting to the truth.


	10. Chapter 10

"Well, you were right, Colonel. He's got no serious injuries," said Wilson. "But he's gonna be sore for a few days. Someone gave him a pretty good kick in the ribs."

He took a mouthful of strong black coffee, and folded his hands around the mug. He and Hogan were sitting at the table in the center of the barracks, in near darkness, speaking in low voices out of consideration for the sleeping men all around them.

"And?"

Wilson uttered a low grunt. "You were right about that, too. He's been worked over, pretty thoroughly, round about a week or ten days ago."

"Another fight?"

"I don't think so. I've patched up plenty of fellers after they've gone at it. Usually they'll have bruised knuckles from where they landed a few punches on the other guy. Now, Mills has some fresh bruises on his hands, but those are from tonight. Whatever happened at the transit camp, he didn't fight back, or wasn't given the chance."

Hogan drew a deep breath. "Could it have been an interrogation that got out of hand?"

"Don't quote me on it. But that's my guess, and I don't think it was just one session." Wilson drained his coffee, and stood up. "Is there anything else before I head back?"

"Yeah. I've got a team out on a job tonight," said Hogan. "It'd be handy if I could be sure Mills is asleep when they get back. Any chance you could get him to take something, tell him it's a painkiller?"

"Wish you'd told me before," replied Wilson dourly. "I already gave him something. I thought he could use a good night's sleep. It'll only last a couple of hours, but once he's out he should sleep solid till morning."

"Well, that's something. Thanks, Wilson. Take the tunnel, we've run enough risks with the guards for one night." Hogan opened the tunnel entrance, and watched as Wilson disappeared below. Then he went back to his quarters.

Whatever it was the medic had administered, it obviously worked fast. Mills was already close to unconscious, but as Hogan closed the door, he gave a start, and opened his eyes.

"Easy, Mills," said Hogan. "It's okay, you're safe." He drew a chair close to the bunk, and straddled it, leaning on the back to create the illusion of a barrier. It seemed to reassure Mills, who settled back onto the thin pillow, watching Hogan as warily as a man gradually falling into a drugged sleep could manage.

"Why'd you stop 'em?" he mumbled. "Why'd you bring me - What d'you want from me?"

"I just want you to get some sleep, Mills," replied Hogan steadily. "We'll talk in the morning."

"No. No talk. Got nothing to say. Tell him he can go..." The last couple of words slurred towards incomprehensibility.

"Who, Mills?" Hogan tilted his head forward. "Who got to you, and what was he after?" But Mills was already too far gone to hear him. Hogan watched him for a minute or so, but he was well and truly out.

"Just when I was on the brink of getting somewhere," growled Hogan softly.

He got up, switched off the light, and went out into the barracks, where he slipped off his shoes and jacket, and lay down fully dressed on the unoccupied bunk nearest to his quarters, where he could grab forty winks, but still keep an ear out for any sounds.

As little as Mills, in his half-awake state, had said, one important detail had come out, and Hogan, lying wide awake in the darkness, turned it over in his mind. _Tell him he can go to hell_...

Somehow, he had to find out who that message had been intended for.

* * *

Disoriented by his sudden awakening, Mills thought he was back in the cell.

Instinctively he tried to sit up, but the movement set his head to spinning, and he fell back onto the mattress. The fact that it was a mattress - thin and hard, but a mattress, not a bare wooden bench - took some time to filter through the fog which seemed to have taken over his brain.

A mattress, and a coarse blanket as well. So this wasn't the cell. Of course it wasn't. He was at Stalag 13, just a prisoner of war like the rest of them. For now, he was safe.

Whatever the medic had given him, it sure packed a punch. His eyelids felt like they had been glued shut. It took an effort to get them open, but it was too dark to see anything, and the only sound, from somewhere close by, was the murmur of voices. Then he heard footsteps. By pure reflex, he closed his eyes again.

The door opened, and he sensed someone approach the bed and lean over him. "Mills? You awake?" Vaguely, he recognized Sergeant Kinchloe's voice, and for a moment he almost let his guard down. If anyone in this place could be trusted, Kinchloe was the man.

No. He'd made that mistake once already. No way was he going to fall for it again. He stayed still, consciously keeping his breathing slow and steady, until at last Kinchloe moved away, speaking quietly to someone else: "Dead to the world, Colonel."

"Good. Let's go see how the boys got on," replied Hogan, just before the door closed. A moment later, Mills heard a repeat of the sound which had woken him, a rattling noise accompanied by the squeak of wood against wood. Pushing against the all-over lethargy which held him down, he rolled off the bunk, and tottered across to the door. He paused for a moment to steady himself before easing it open and peering out.

All appeared quiet in the barracks, where a faint yellowish light illuminated the rows of bunks with their sleeping occupants. But there was something unnatural about the scene, something his dulled senses struggled to come to grips with. His eyes fixed on the dim glow issuing from beneath one of the bunks.

_That's kind of odd_, he thought. But before he could decide whether to take a closer look, the bunk above suddenly descended, with the same sound he'd heard before, and the light vanished.

"What the hell...?" he murmured.

For some time, he stayed where he was, leaning against the rough frame of the door, trying to make sense of what he'd just seen, or thought he'd seen. There was a dreamlike quality about his remembrance of the whole weird event, as if the drowsiness which had drained his mental energy had allowed his imagination to get the upper hand, showing him the way out he so desperately wanted. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real.

Finally he stumbled back to the bunk, giving in to a renewed tide of lassitude against which he couldn't fight. But even as he slid into unconsciousness, a faint whisper of thought drifted across his awareness. _If there really is a tunnel, maybe there's a chance..._

* * *

The mission had gone off without a hitch. For the next few weeks, anyone who wanted to get over the river at Braunfeld was going to have to swim.

"Well, at least one thing's gone right this week," observed Hogan. It was early morning, and he had reclaimed his quarters, sending Mills out to wait for roll call with the rest of the men.

LeBeau, who had just brought him coffee, chuckled. "It was a beautiful operation, _mon colonel_. It's almost killing Newkirk that he can't tell the whole story in detail, because we have a visitor."

"I'm sure the story will keep." Hogan opened the door an inch or so. Most of the men were getting dressed, or making up their bunks. Only Mills, who had as yet no real place here, was unoccupied. He had found himself a safe corner, between the door and the washbasin, from which refuge he seemed to be taking stock of his situation. From the shadows under his eyes, it appeared he hadn't gotten much benefit from the long night's sleep imposed on him.

"How long is he going to be here?" asked LeBeau.

"That's a good question." Hogan gave a rueful grin. "Bringing him here wasn't exactly part of the plan. I guess we just have to play it by ear."

He strolled out of the office, as calm and casual as ever. "Morning, fellers. All ready for another day of fun and relaxation at the Grand Hotel Klink?"

"Can't hardly contain my excitement, sir," replied Newkirk. "We're on garbage detail today - my favorite pastime, apart from scrubbing out the latrines."

"Keep talking, Newkirk. I'm sure I can arrange something," said Hogan.

He refilled his coffee mug, and went to speak to Mills. "When it's time for roll call, you'll have to hightail it back to Barracks 18, and line up with them. But as soon as possible, I'll arrange for you to be moved to another barracks."

Mills regarded him warily. "Why?"

"Because I don't want MacNeill and his pals ganging up on you again," replied Hogan. "As long as I'm the senior officer here, that's not on." He paused for a moment, then added, "Look, I know something happened while you were at the transit camp. And I get it, right now you don't trust anyone, including me. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to do everything I can to help you. Whether you believe that or not is up to you."

He turned away, but stopped in his tracks, as Mills said, in a low voice: "Colonel...about the transit camp..."

But before he could finish the sentence, he was struck by the door of the barracks as it was flung open. "_Raus_, everybody, _raus_," bellowed Schultz. "All prisoners are required for assembly immediately."

"Roll call's not for another half hour, Schultz," said Hogan. He moved back towards the door, to make sure Schultz didn't spot Mills standing behind it.

"This is not roll call. This is a special formation called by order of the Kommandant. And boy, is he ever mad about something." Schultz shook a finger, like an angry uncle scolding a dozen ill-behaved nephews. "Whatever you prisoners have been up to, you are in big trouble. Now, all of you, _raus_."

"Okay, okay, we're _rausing_ as fast as we can," grumbled LeBeau.

"It's not fair. How come we get blamed for everything that happens round here?" added Carter plaintively.

"I'd lay short odds, whatever it is, it was the guards what done it," said Newkirk. "Doesn't matter what kind of a prison you're in, the screws are always bent."

Schultz went immediately on the defensive. "It's not true. I'm a very honest man. You can ask anyone."

Hogan put his hand on Schultz's shoulder, and propelled him forward, away from the door. "I believe you, Schultz. I don't think you're crooked."

"I should think not," grunted Schultz.

"After all, it takes brains to be dishonest," Hogan went on. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mills slide around the door behind Schultz's back, and make his escape.

"That's right, it does take..." Schultz broke off, then uttered a low rumble. "Jolly jokers! _Raus!_"

The prisoners, scowling and complaining, straggled out to the parade ground. For his part, Hogan presented a front of bored resignation, but all his senses were alert. It was rare for Klink to call a special formation, especially so close to the usual time for roll call. Obviously something had really gotten him riled. It could be something to do with the previous night's sabotage mission, or it could be that Mills' absence from Barracks 18 had been discovered.

Hogan had plenty of practice in dealing with a suspicious, angry Kommandant, but it was an unwelcome distraction, and the timing couldn't have been worse. Just when Mills had finally decided to talk, this had to happen.

For a brief moment, the answers Hogan needed had been within his reach. But chance had snatched them away, and if Mills, now that he had time for second thoughts, decided not to speak after all, they could be gone for good.


	11. Chapter 11

Kommandant Klink was in a high state of indignation as he stormed out of his office and strode across the compound towards the ranks of prisoners, calling for Schultz's report in a tone which resonated with querulous rage.

"He looks kind of upset," said Kinch, just loud enough for his immediate neighbors to hear. "You guys didn't leave any incriminating evidence near the bridge, did you?"

"You think we're stupid? Of course not," replied LeBeau. "It must be about something else. Maybe he found out Mills wasn't where he was supposed to be."

Hogan glanced across towards the block of men from Barracks 18. Mills had found his place at the end of the front row, apparently without being caught _en route_. If all this was simply because he'd been missed, it should be easy enough to gloss over. But the shrillness of Klink's voice, and the hunching of his shoulders, suggested it was something bigger.

"All present and accounted for, _Herr Kommandant_." Schultz made an effort to sound assertive, a target he invariably failed to reach. But Klink just waved him aside, and glared around at the prisoners, his eyes finally fixing on Hogan.

"I have just had a report from Sergeant Kraus," he announced. "It seems that during the night, someone, or several someones, made an unauthorized visit to the officers' mess, and stole several bottles of schnapps, cognac and _Apfelmost_."

A murmur of surprise rippled along the ranks of Barracks 2, as they realized that, for once, some other barracks was responsible. But Klink's tirade continued without a pause. "You all know the penalties for theft, and for being out of your barracks after lights out, and for possession of alcohol. The men responsible for this outrage, take two steps forward."

"If they drank any of that apple wine, they've been punished enough," muttered Newkirk.

Hogan's voice was like ice. "Oh, no, they haven't. Right now, the last thing we need is a bunch of cowboys going into business for themselves. They're not just in trouble with Klink. Once he's finished with them, they still have to face me."

"Well, whoever they are, they aren't busting to get it off their conscience," said Kinch, when almost half a minute had passed, without any of the prisoners moving. "I guess Klink wasn't exactly encouraging - take two steps forward, and keep going, straight to the cooler. I wouldn't be putting my hand up, either."

"And we all know what comes next, don't we?" Hogan added. "'If the criminals responsible do not step forward...'"

"...all privileges will be suspended, all prisoners will be confined to barracks, and the entire camp will be searched." Klink had started speaking almost in unison, and finished with the usual threats.

"You'd think they'd get bored, tearing the place apart and never finding anything," remarked Newkirk in resigned accents.

"Yeah, maybe we ought to leave something lying around for them some time, just so they don't lose interest," said Carter, with a nervous giggle.

Hogan looked across at Mills again, and his eyes narrowed. Mills was staring at him, as close to consternation as anyone here had yet seen him. His gaze flickered towards the Kommandant. A moment later, he squared his shoulders and took two steps forward.

Hogan bit back an exclamation, partly of astonishment, mostly of vexation.

"What's he doing?" asked Kinch. "There's no way he could have been breaking into the officers' mess last night."

"I don't know," replied Hogan. "But I intend to find out."

Klink was already advancing on Mills. "So, one of our new prisoners. Apparently you didn't pay attention to the warning I gave you when you arrived. You'll have plenty of time to think about it, in the cooler. Who else was involved?"

Mills replied too quietly, and was too far away, for Hogan to hear, but his answer was pretty easy to guess: "Nobody."

"Don't try to protect them," thundered Klink. "I mean to get to the bottom of this outrage. Who were the others?" This time Mills didn't reply at all, and after an increasingly tense silence, Klink turned to Schultz. "Take him to my office for interrogation. The rest of the prisoners will stay on formation, unless anyone else wants to confess to their part in this."

He waited just long enough to be sure nobody was going to take up the invitation, then turned on his heel and stalked after Schultz and Mills. Hogan turned up his collar, and followed.

Klink didn't even notice him at first. He removed his coat and hat and hung them on the stand, then strode around the desk and sat down. "Now, sergeant...?" He paused, searching his memory for the name of this new and unfamiliar prisoner.

"Mills," said Hogan, in his most helpful manner.

"Thank you, Hogan, that's very...Hogan! You're supposed to be on formation with the other prisoners."

"Am I? Gosh, I didn't realize that included me," remarked Hogan. "You know, Kommandant, if you want us to know what your orders mean, you gotta make 'em clearer."

"My orders are perfectly clear. You just choose to disregard them." Klink glared at him. "Sometimes I think you forget who's running this camp, Hogan."

"Oh, I don't think there's any doubts about that, sir."

Schultz gave a soft, half-suppressed snicker, but Mills had withdrawn into himself again, and his expression was unreadable.

"Well, now we've cleared that up, you can take yourself off to where you're supposed to be," said Klink testily.

"Actually, sir, I'm supposed to be right here. Regulations state that you can't question one of my men unless I'm present."

"I know what the regulations are. Very well, stay, but no interruptions. Now, Mills, start talking. Who are your fellow criminals, and what did you do with all those bottles?" Klink waited for a response, then abruptly stood up. "Answer me," he barked, slamming his fist on the desk.

It would have been much more intimidating, if he'd been able to suppress the grimace of pain which followed it. He uttered a faint whimper, pressed his lips tightly together, and stuck his bruised hand under his other arm. Mills had flinched at the unexpected outburst, but made no other response. He kept his lips tightly closed and his eyes lowered.

"This is foolishness," Klink went on, his voice a little strained. "Do you think we won't find out, sooner or later? Your friends will be caught and punished, and your silence won't help them. Furthermore, until the culprits are identified and the stolen alcohol recovered, I will have to impose punishment on the entire camp. How do you think the innocent majority will feel about that? And I think we all know who they're going to hold responsible for it."

"Yep, you're right, Kommandant," said Hogan. "They'll blame you."

"Exactly. They'll blame...Hogan!"

"Look, sir, I know how you hate it when the fellers are mad at you," Hogan went on, without missing a beat. "But you can't expect Mills to squeal on his pals, just to save you from a few dirty looks."

"Hogan, keep out of this." Klink's tone wavered between menace and fretfulness. "Mills, I'll ask you again. Who else was involved?"

"Nobody," replied Mills.

"And what about the loot - that's what you Americans call it, am I right? Where is it?"

"I don't remember."

"You don't remember? You broke into the officer's mess and single-handedly made off with nine bottles of spirits, and you don't remember where you left them?"

"Maybe he drank them, _Herr Kommandant_," suggested Schultz.

"Ah, shut up." Klink pointed towards the door. "Take this man to the cooler. Maybe a few days of solitary confinement will improve his memory."

"_Jawohl, Herr Kommandant_." Schultz gestured for Mills to go ahead, and escorted him from the office.

The Kommandant turned his attention to his opposite number. "As for you, Hogan..."

"Smart move, sir," Hogan broke in, before Klink could get into his stride. "I gotta hand it to you, when it comes to understanding psychology, you're the tops."

Brought up short, Klink immediately lost the thread of the admonishment he'd been about to deliver. "I am? Yes, I suppose I am," he murmured, after a few seconds.

"It hurts to admit it, but in all honesty, the way you handled Mills was masterful. You knew right off there was no way he'd squeal on his buddies," Hogan went on. "Not to you, anyway. But give him a couple of hours to think it over, and I might just be able to convince him to talk. That way you'll get your answers without Mills having to turn snitch."

"Snitch?"

"You know, a sneak. A blabbermouth. Tattle-tale, stool pigeon, fink, squealer... "

"You mean, an informer?"

"Isn't that what I said?"

Klink took his monocle out of his eye, and began to polish it. "I see what you're getting at. You think Mills won't want to be known around the camp as a - a snitch..."

"That's right, sir."

"...so you are going to become one yourself. Why would you do that?"

"For the sake of all the other men in camp. I don't want all of the prisoners to suffer, just because a couple of them did the wrong thing." Hogan sighed, the picture of earnest regret at a painful necessity.

A few moments of silence ensued, while Klink thought about it. Then he replaced his monocle. "Very well, Hogan. I'll allow you to speak to Mills, once he's had some time to reflect on his situation. But you'd better get the truth out of him."

"Oh, I will, sir. But in the meantime..."

"In the meantime," Klink interrupted, "my guards will search every barracks, and if they find any contraband, there will be serious consequences. Dismissed."

There was little more Hogan could do here. He saluted and left the office. The prisoners were still on formation, so he went back to join his men outside Barracks 2.

"Got it sorted, Colonel?" murmured Newkirk.

"Not yet. But I think I've made a start," said Hogan, his eyes narrowing as a squad of guards raced across the yard towards Barracks 18 to start the search Klink had promised.

His gaze turned towards the cooler. Within the next couple of hours, he'd be allowed to talk to Mills. And this time, he meant to get some answers.


	12. Chapter 12

"Well, the goons may have come up empty-handed, but we did better," said Kinch, emerging from the tunnel just before noon.

It had come as no surprise to Hogan that Barracks 2 was the second hut to be searched, after the guards had ransacked Barracks 18. In fact, it was a bit of luck that they did. Once the search party had moved on, leaving complete chaos behind, it was safe to start his own investigation of the raid on the officers' mess. He'd sent Kinch and Newkirk to track down the perpetrators and retrieve the stolen liquor, while their barracks mates cleared up the mess.

"Carter, watch the door," said Hogan. Then he turned to Kinch and Newkirk. "Who was it?"

"That bunch of wasters in Barracks 5," replied Newkirk. "They hid the booze down in the tunnel."

"And it didn't occur to them that burgling the officers' mess might just attract unwanted attention?"

"I don't think those guys really get the whole cause and effect idea, Colonel," said Kinch dryly. "We confiscated the bottles. Are we gonna clear Mills?"

Hogan folded his arms. "I don't think it'll do any good. He already confessed, so even if we finger the real culprits, Klink'll assume Mills was part of it. Or he'll wonder why Mills is ready to take the blame for a misdemeanour he had no part in."

"I'm wondering about that myself," said Newkirk. "It's not like he's got friends in Barracks 5."

"Maybe he wanted to get sent to the cooler," suggested LeBeau. "He's had a rough time with the other prisoners, maybe he just wants to get away from everyone."

"Could be," said Hogan, but he seemed dissatisfied. "Either way, as things stand I'd rather Klink didn't start taking too much interest in Mills, at least until we've gotten the whole picture ourselves."

"Schultz is coming," Carter put in at this point.

Kinch struck the side of the bunk to close the tunnel entrance, and by the time the sergeant of the guard arrived everything in the barracks was in order. Nevertheless, he peered around with a degree of vague, unfocussed suspicion. Finding nothing untoward, he grunted under his breath.

"Colonel Hogan, the Kommandant says I can take you to the cooler to talk to Mills now," he said.

"Thanks, Schultz. I'll be right with you." Hogan turned back towards Kinch. "Okay, this is what I want you to...Schultz, do you mind? I'm trying to talk to my men."

"You know, it's not nice to listen to other people's conversations," added LeBeau in disapproving tones.

"I wasn't listening. I was just standing here," protested Schultz.

Newkirk gave a cynical laugh. "A likely story!"

"But it's true. You know I have one firm rule. I see nothing, I hear nothing, I know nothing."

"And you're better at it than anyone I know, Schultz," said Hogan. "Tell you what, I'll overlook it this time, but don't let it happen again. Kinch..." Hogan murmured a few instructions, while Schultz stood aside, studiously ignoring the conversation.

"...and make sure it's done before I get back. Okay, Schultz, let's go." Hogan zipped up his jacket and ushered Schultz outside.

"How's the search going?" he asked, as he crossed the yard towards the cooler.

Schultz heaved a sigh, and threw out his hands. "We searched every corner of every barracks. What do you think we found? Nothing."

"Maybe you should start on the guards' barracks," said Hogan. "Between you and me, Schultz, those guys can't be trusted."

"I know. I work with them," replied Schultz emphatically. "But since Mills already confessed, we know it wasn't the guards this time.

"Well, I guess that settles it."

They had reached the cooler by this time. Schultz exchanged a few words with the sentry on duty, then escorted Hogan inside. On the way down the stairs, Hogan paused. "Listen, Schultz, can you give us a few minutes in private?"

"It is against regulation," rumbled Schultz. "You will put me into trouble."

"Okay, if you say so." Hogan gave an indifferent shrug. "Just it seems to me that Mills will be more willing to talk if he knows there are no guards within earshot. With you hanging round, it'll take a lot longer to get anything out of him, and I'm in a hurry to get back to the barracks. LeBeau's making those little apple fritters for lunch, and I don't want to miss out."

"Apple fritters?" Schultz's eyes brightened.

"Yeah, but at this rate they'll all be eaten by the time we get there. Of course, if you went over there now, you could get your share, and make sure LeBeau saves some for me. After all, it's not like Mills is going anywhere."

Schultz wavered. "If the Kommandant finds out..."

"Then he'll end up with all the fritters," replied Hogan. "So you'd better get in first, Schultz."

He watched Schultz with interest, as duty battled with appetite, and lost. "I will come straight back," he said. Then he mounted the stairs with surprising agility, and disappeared.

As Hogan had expected, Mills had been put into one of the small, open-barred cells closest to the stairs, where the guards could check on him without having to go all the way down. He was sitting on the narrow cot, leaning against the wall, but as Hogan approached, he opened his eyes, then stood up.

Hogan rested one hand against the bars. "Klink's given me permission to talk to you," he said. "I'm supposed to be asking you to tell me who else was involved in the break-in. But what I really want to know is why you confessed, when I know perfectly well that you had nothing to do with it."

Mills flushed. "I'd prefer not to say, sir," he murmured.

"I thought as much," said Hogan in a level tone. "But I'm going to ask anyway. Back in the barracks, you were just about ready to talk to me, when Schultz barged in. Don't hold out on me now." He paused, trying to read the man's expression. "Listen, Mills. I want to help you. But you have to trust me, and you can start by telling me why you're taking the fall for those idiots in Barracks 5."

"You'll think it's crazy," said Mills after a few seconds. "It's just, when the Kommandant said he was going to have the place searched..."

"Go on."

"Last night, I thought I saw something." Mills glanced at Hogan. "But most likely I was just dreaming."

"What was it?" said Hogan.

Mills hesitated, and glanced around the cell. "They're not listening, are they?"

"The Krauts don't have these cells bugged, Mills. Any time one of my men is in here - and they're in here a lot - they make a thorough sweep. This is probably the safest place to talk in the entire camp." Hogan finished with a soft chuckle.

Mills still seemed to have doubts, and his voice dropped to a whisper as he spoke. "I dreamt I saw something under one of the bunks, something that looked like the start of a tunnel. Pretty stupid, I know. But when Klink ordered the search this morning, I thought, well, if there really was a tunnel, and the Krauts found it..."

"So you thought if you confessed, maybe they'd skip the search?"

"I don't know. I guess so."

"Well, seeing as you couldn't tell Klink where the liquor was, they searched anyway. Not that they found any tunnels," observed Hogan. He was watching closely, but even so he almost missed the faint shadow of disappointment which crossed Mills' face. It was on the tip of his tongue to confirm that the tunnel was no dream. He restrained the urge. There would be plenty of time for that later, once he knew for sure whether Mills was on the level.

"Tell me about the transit camp," he said.

Mills shook his head. "Nothing happened at the transit camp," he repeated stubbornly.

"Mills..."

"I was never there." The words came out abruptly, as if Mills still didn't want to say them. Hogan, taken by surprise, fell silent, and after a few seconds Mills went on. "It was somewhere else. They only brought me to Oberursel so I could be transferred here."

"Who? The Gestapo?" Hogan waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming. "Mills, talk to me. I already figured out they'd worked you over, and I'm guessing it was pretty bad. I'm not surprised you don't want to go back over it. But whatever it was they wanted from you, I need to know about it."

Mills' eyebrows drew in, as he argued it out with himself. "There's something else you need to know first, if you don't know it already," he said in a low voice. He glanced at the stairs, then moved closer to the bars, gripping one of them with his hand clenched so tightly that the knuckles showed white.

"The Gestapo have a man in this camp, working for them. One of the prisoners. I don't know who it is. It could be anyone." Mills' voice shook, and he met Hogan's gaze, his eyes shadowed with the suspicion he clearly wanted to dismiss, but couldn't. "For all I know, it could be you, Colonel."


	13. Chapter 13

"How long do we have to keep him busy?" mumbled Carter.

LeBeau rolled his eyes. "Until Colonel Hogan gets back. And at the rate Schultz is going, we may run out of fritters before then. This is the last batch." He glowered at Schultz, who, oblivious to the conversation over the frying pan, sat at the table where an almost empty platter gave witness to his healthy appetite.

"What are we gonna do?"

"You'll have to distract him," replied LeBeau.

"Me?"

"_Oui_, you. Just until the others get back from moving all those bottles of _Schnaps_, then Newkirk will take over."

"Well, how am I supposed to..." Carter squeaked. LeBeau hushed him with a single glare, and he moderated his volume. "How am I supposed to do that?"

"Talk to him. Tell him about your last letter from home, or ask him who he thinks is responsible for the mess on the Eastern Front. Or show him a card trick," suggested LeBeau. "That usually works."

"I only know one card trick," said Carter, his brow puckering into anxiety.

"Then give it a try." LeBeau nodded towards Schultz, who was just popping the last available fritter into his mouth.

Carter sighed. "Boy, I wish Mills had never come here," he muttered. Then he pinned on a smile, and went to provide the necessary diversion.

A deck of cards was lying on the table. Carter picked them up, and started shuffling.

"Say, Schultz," he said brightly, "you ever play fifty-two pickup?"

* * *

In the cooler, all was quiet, as Hogan assessed the news he'd just been given. If there really was a Gestapo mole in camp, it was a serious matter. It also went some way towards explaining Mills' attitude.

"I guess there's not much point in me telling you I'm not the traitor," said Hogan at last. "That's what you'd expect a Gestapo informant to say. I think it's in the rules, or something. But my guess is, you don't really think it's me, otherwise you wouldn't be telling me about it."

He folded his arms, and leaned his shoulder against the bars, frowning. "How'd you find out?" he asked.

Mills uttered a soft, jerky laugh. "They told me." His voice grated, and he had to stop for a few seconds, to pull himself together. "They didn't want me talking once I got here. So before they handed me over, they said someone would be watching me, and if I said a word to anyone, their guy would make sure I paid for it." Once again he broke off, biting his lower lip.

"And you've got no idea who it is?" said Hogan. Receiving no reply, he went on. "Okay, let me see if I can work it out. Whoever it is, he can't be sure of who you're talking to, unless he's in a position to watch you pretty well around the clock. And that's not so easy in a prison camp. All the prisoners are confined to barracks at night, and anyone who sneaked off to see what you were up to would be missed by his bunkmates. So that only leaves the men in your own barracks. I'm right, aren't I?"

A flash of emotion had briefly kindled in Mills' eyes. "I can't be sure. But the first night I was here..." He hesitated, then finished, in a very low voice, "I spoke to Lieutenant Jeffries."

"What did you tell him?" asked Hogan sharply.

"Just that much, that they had an informer somewhere in Stalag 13. He brushed it off, said he didn't believe it. Next day, the other guys started looking sideways at me." Mills' color rose, and he looked away.

"I can guess why," said Hogan. "By that time, there was talk going round. The kind of talk which, in a place like this, could make things very uncomfortable."

"I couldn't exactly deny it," Mills mumbled. "Once it's out there..."

Hogan nodded. It hadn't escaped him that Mills still wasn't denying the rumor, but right now that wasn't his concern. "Did anyone else hear what you said to Jeffries?" he asked.

"We were in his quarters. I don't think they could hear us, but they all knew I was in there."

"So either Jeffries is our man, or someone else worked out why you wanted to talk to your barracks chief in private. Whoever it is, he was smart. He knew that once the rumor got round camp, it wouldn't take long for some of the other prisoners to decide having you around the place was a bad idea, and to make sure you knew about it. So you'd be punished for talking after you'd been warned, and he wouldn't need to lift a finger, unless he felt like having some fun. As well as that, he probably thought it was a safe bet that that even if you tried again, you'd have trouble finding anyone in camp who'd be willing to listen to you. Two birds, one stone. I'd almost be prepared to admire it, if it wasn't so despicable."

Mills glanced at him, a slight crease forming between his eyebrows. Clearly, Hogan's attitude wasn't what he expected, but from the look of it he wasn't yet prepared to drop his guard.

"Okay, now we know we've got a Gestapo mole, we can make sure he's dealt with," said Hogan. "So let's leave that for now. There's something else I need to ask you about, and I think you know what I'm talking about." Then, as Mills still didn't say anything, he went on. "Listen to me, Mills. I'm not interested in hearsay, and right now, I don't give a damn about your personal life. All that matters to me is getting this business sorted out. I'm asking you to trust me, and I'm offering to do the same by you. Tell me what the Gestapo wanted from you, and I'll do everything I can to help you. You've got my word on it."

"I don't see any way you can help me," mumbled Mills.

"Let me be the judge of that."

Mills clearly wanted to, but he still held back. "Thing is, it's not just about...I mean, it's a long story."

"Then you'd better make a start. My boys can only keep Schultz busy for so long before he remembers he's supposed to be guarding them." There was a chair standing in a corner of the passage. Hogan brought it up to the bars, and made himself comfortable. "Start at the beginning. You told Carter you were shot down over Saarbrücken. Was that the start of it?"

"Yeah. But some of what I said wasn't...I mean, I wasn't completely honest with him." Mills sat on the edge of the bed, very tense. "We caught some flak on approach - had to abort, turned for home with no navigation and the number three engine burning. Ended up way off course. I'm not even sure where we were when she went down."

He stopped abruptly. Hogan waited for a few seconds before he spoke, in an even, neutral tone. "You told me most of the crew didn't get out."

"No. Lieutenant Smith - the bombardier - he bailed out first. I was second. She went into a dive before anyone else could..." Once again, Mills' voice failed.

There was nothing to be gained by dragging him through the details of the crash. Later, if he got the chance, Mills might get some benefit in talking it through with whoever was willing to listen, but it was unlikely he was ready to confide in anyone yet, and anyway this wasn't the time or place for it. Hogan moved on. "So what happened then? You were picked up by the Krauts..."

"Not right away." Mills flushed. "It just seemed easier to tell Carter that."

"You evaded?"

"For a while. I came down in some woods, miles from anywhere. The chute got caught in a tree, and I thought for sure someone would find me hanging there, but nobody showed up before I got loose. So I found somewhere to hole up till it got dark, and then I started walking. I figured my best chance was to try to reach the coast, seeing as I had no idea where in Germany I was."

"What about the other guy?" Hogan interrupted. "Lieutenant Smith, the bombardier. You didn't see where he came down?"

"No, I lost sight of him. Before I left the area, I tried to scout round where I thought he'd have landed. Couldn't find any trace of him, so I had to let it go. But he got down safe all right. I found that out later." There was a hard edge in Mills' voice as he replied, and his expression turned dark.

"What did he do?" said Hogan.

Mills drew a deep breath. "Nothing much, Colonel. He just got us caught by the Gestapo. And then he sold me out."


	14. Chapter 14

"I guess it must have been four, maybe five days I was on the run. I got into a routine, going as far as I could at night, making sure I was under cover before the sun came up. I kept to the woods, and I found water, but I didn't have any food, and I didn't get a lot of sleep. So after the first couple of days I wasn't really thinking straight."

Hogan didn't say anything. The last thing he wanted to do was interrupt, now that Mills was finally ready to talk. If he needed to, he could ask questions later, once he'd completely gained the man's trust. For now, he stayed quiet, sitting upright on the old wooden chair, and concentrating on taking in as much of the story as possible before Schultz came back.

From outside came the normal sounds of the daily camp routine: the arrival and departure of the motorcycle courier with the day's despatches, the changing of the guard at the front gate, a flurry of barking from the dogs when one of the goons strayed too close. Hogan scarcely heard them, as he followed Mills' weary, stumbling progress through an unknown forest.

"I think I must have gone round in circles a bit." Mills sounded like he was describing a bad dream, one he didn't want to remember. "Seemed like I wasn't getting anywhere. But then the forest opened out, and it was all fields and farms. I got real spooked about it, thinking I'd get caught out in the open. So I went back to the woods."

He fell silent, his eyes fixed on the wall opposite. After a few seconds, he added softly, "I couldn't do it, not on my own. That's why I decided to turn myself in to the first Kraut I saw."

Once again, he stopped, and bit his lower lip. But if he thought the colonel would think the worse of him, Hogan quickly set him straight. "A lot of downed airmen end up coming to that. There's no shame in it. So how'd it work out?"

Mills flushed, and to Hogan's surprise, he gave a wry laugh. "It was like something out of a Laurel and Hardy film. Suddenly it was like the whole of Germany was deserted. I couldn't find anyone to surrender to. It was raining pretty hard that day, so I figured they'd all stayed indoors. Like I said, I wasn't thinking too clearly by then. I ended up taking shelter in a barn, thinking as soon as it eased off I'd go find the nearest farmhouse. Fell asleep while I was waiting, and when I woke up I found myself staring at the business end of a pitchfork. And that's when I really started to think I'd gone crazy."

He had moved, sitting so his back was against the wall. Hogan, watching keenly, started to notice the little movements, and the fleeting hints of emotion, which colored the basic story. It was unlikely Mills had any idea of the extent to which his body language was supporting his explanation, but Hogan had no doubt of its veracity.

"I put my hands up, and told them I was an American airman, and they should call the MPs. And they - there were two of them - they looked at each other like they didn't know what to do. Then one of them started waving me towards the door. My German ain't so good, but I'm pretty sure he was telling me to beat it. So there I was, practically begging them to turn me in, and them trying to shoo me away before anyone else saw me."

Up till now, Hogan had maintained an appropriately grave demeanor, but as his ever-active imagination pictured the scene, his lips began to twitch. "Yeah, I guess if I saw that in a movie, I'd think it was hilarious," he remarked.

Apparently Mills had a pretty well-developed sense of the ridiculous, too. For the first time since he'd arrived at Stalag 13, he was actually smiling, albeit only slightly, and with an ironic gleam in his eyes. "I can laugh about it now, but it sure wasn't funny at the time. Especially when the people they were there to meet turned up. Three of them, an old guy and a couple of women."

Hogan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and loosely clasping his hands. This was getting interesting.

"They seemed pretty shook up to find me there," Mills went on. "So they all went into a huddle. I guess they were trying to work out what to do with me. Finally, the first two fellers and the women left, and the old man came over and started talking in English. Asked me if I was American, and how long ago I'd been shot down, and where I was trying to get to. So I gave him the whole name, rank, serial number routine, and finally he gave up asking, and told me to stand up and go with him."

"Just like that?" said Hogan.

Mills glanced at him. "I know what you're thinking. But he wasn't scared. He was a tough old bird, and I guess he could tell I was too beat to give him any trouble. But he didn't turn me over to anyone. He took me to his house, and his wife gave me a meal and made up a bed for me, and the next day he told me they'd try to get me out of Germany."

He broke off abruptly. Hogan waited briefly, but with the increasing likelihood of Schultz coming back, he had to push the conversation on. "Who was he? Part of the underground network?"

At once, Mills drew back. "No names."

"Okay, that's up to you," said Hogan.

Mills regarded him narrowly for a few seconds. "You're sure the Krauts don't have this place bugged?"

"I can guarantee it." Hogan met the searching gaze with absolute confidence, and after a few moments Mills, reassured, went on with his story.

"They help people who need to escape. Jews, mostly. They don't usually have anything to do with Allied servicemen, but I'd dropped in on a rendezvous, which kind of put them on the spot. If they ran me in, they'd have the Gestapo asking a whole lot of questions about what they were doing out there. They figured it was safer for them if they got me out."

"By the same route their other customers use?"

"Pretty much. The man who took me in got some clothes for me, and told me he'd organized for me to ride in the guard's van of the overnight train as far as Mendelburg, where the next safe house was. That was...that would have been...I'm not sure how long ago that was." Mills' voice faltered, and his brow furrowed.

"Don't worry about it," said Hogan. "Just tell me what happened."

Mills moved slightly, and folded his arms across his chest, before he continued. "I got off the train at Mendelburg, like I was supposed to, and I had directions to get to the safe house. It was around two in the morning, and there should have been nobody around. But just when I was leaving the station, a couple of cars turned up. Turned out to be the police - regular, not the Gestapo. Most of them headed straight for the platform, and I heard a lot of shouting, but when I tried to get out of the way, a couple of them stopped me, and started asking a lot of questions. Next thing I knew, the rest of them came back dragging a guy they'd found hiding somewhere. Seems the station master had spotted him skulking round, and called the cops."

He brushed one hand across his face. "It was Lieutenant Smith, and he looked like hell. And as soon as he saw me, he just came out with _What are you doing here? I thought you were dead_. So if I had any hope that the Krauts weren't on to me, that was the end of it. They took us both in, and put us in a cell to wait for someone to come for us."

"I guess you were pretty mad at him," said Hogan after a pause.

"Not then, not so much. He was pretty messed up," replied Mills. "Not just physically, I mean. He'd been on the run the whole time. He was almost incoherent, but apparently he'd had the same idea as me, to get to the coast. He'd stumbled across the railroad track, and started following it, thinking maybe he could jump a train."

"Without knowing where it was going? That's crazy. For all he knew he could have ended up halfway to the Russian Front."

Mills gave a soft sigh. "I think he really was half crazy by that time. Once we were locked up, he got into a hell of a state. It was like he just couldn't deal with getting captured after everything he'd gone through. I got scared, thinking he might do something drastic. You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do. We've seen a few guys like that," replied Hogan, and not by so much as the blink of an eye did he give any hint that until recently he'd classified Mills among them.

"I couldn't let him go on like that," said Mills. "I had to do something. But I made a big mistake. I told him if we could manage to get away, I knew where to go for help. I didn't realize that the Krauts were listening in, and as soon as their chief heard that, he made a call to someone he knew would be interested. Couple of hours later, they came for us. But they didn't take us to any transit camp."

"Where was it?"

"Don't know. It was still dark, and they didn't give us a chance to look round." Mills paused, his eyes darkening. Then he went on, very softly. "There was a Gestapo officer, he questioned me as soon as I arrived. He said he wasn't interested in Allied prisoners, they could come and go as they liked as far as he was concerned. But the people who helped me, he was real interested in them. He's been after them for a long time. If I told him what I knew, he could arrange for me to get to Switzerland. If I refused the offer, he'd have to convince me to change my mind. So I told him to go to hell."

"Good for you," said Hogan. "But I bet he wasn't impressed."

"No. He wasn't." Mills' eyelids fluttered rapidly. "He told his goons to teach me some manners, and to make sure they didn't kill me. When they'd finished, they tossed me in a cell to think it over, and they left me alone."

Hogan's jaw clenched. That explained the bruises. "How long?"

"I'm not sure. Three or four days, maybe. Long enough for them to go to work on Lieutenant Smith. When they finally had me in for more questioning, the guy in charge said he'd been very helpful. Couldn't tell them anything about the Underground people, so they got him to talk about me. Where I came from, and how long I'd been at 182 Squadron, and how many missions we'd flown together - hell, he probably told 'em what I had for breakfast, before the Saarbrücken raid. And he told them something else, too." He finished on a low, harsh note.

"Was it the same thing that's been reported around Stalag 13 the last couple of days?" asked Hogan.

Mills didn't answer him. After a few seconds, he drew a deep breath, and went on. "The Gestapo officer told me the Switzerland offer wasn't available any more. The Luftstalag administration had been making enquiries. They knew a couple of airmen had been captured at Mendelburg, and that the Gestapo had us, and they weren't happy about it. So the deal now was, if I co-operated, I'd be transferred to a POW camp, with a clean record. If not...well, they've got other ways of dealing with undesirables. All he had to do was give the Luftwaffe a full report on what kind of degenerate they had on their hands, and they'd back off, and let the Gestapo deal with me."

Hogan gave a soft, cynical grunt. "He was bluffing."

"Maybe. At the time, I just gave him the same answer as the first time, with the same result," said Mills. "After that, they left me in the cell for another couple of days. When he had me brought out again, he told I was going to be moved to a Luftstalag. He seemed pretty annoyed about it, but he said it was only temporary, until he got a ruling about whose prisoner I actually was."

"In other words, he hadn't managed to convince the Luftwaffe to waive their authority." Hogan stood up, and stretched his back, which was starting to stiffen up.

Mills continued as if he hadn't heard. "He said not to get any ideas about escaping, because the camp they were sending me to was the most secure in Germany. No prisoner had ever made it out, so I'd have no chance. And just to make sure, they had someone on the inside, one of the prisoners. He'd be watching every move I made, and if I did try to make a run for it, or if I said a word about where I'd been, or what they wanted from me..."

"Their guy would take steps," Hogan concluded. "As he did - whoever he is. Anything else?"

"Yeah. He said he'd be coming to see me after a week or so, to find out how I was getting on. And by that time, he'd have gotten the red tape ironed out, so there'd be nothing to stop him from taking me away. So I could look on it as one last chance to see reason."

Hogan had started pacing slowly along the passage, frowning in thought. "It's not quite that cut and dried. The Luftwaffe are pretty keen to follow the letter, if not the spirit, of the Geneva Prisoner of War Convention, partly because it makes 'em look civilized, and partly because our side's got more of their airmen than they do of ours. But if he knows which strings to pull, and how to cover his tracks, he might just be able to pull it off."

He came to a stop in front of the cell, regarding Mills with a thoughtful frown. "Has this guy got a name?"

"I never heard it," said Mills, in a weary monotone. "Nobody seemed to think I needed to know, not even the big cheese from the Luftstalag administration."

"What big cheese?"

"I forget his name. He was there when we got to the transit camp. Big fat son of a bitch, looked like three hundred pounds of liverwurst stuffed into a sack."

The description prompted a grin from Hogan. "Did he have a duelling scar across his right cheek?"

"Yeah." Mills sat upright, a startled look in his eyes. "You know him?"

"General Burkhalter, head of the Luftstalag organization. I know him, all right," said Hogan. "What was he doing there? He doesn't usually welcome incoming prisoners personally."

"Far as I could tell, he wasn't interested in me at all. I was just an excuse for him to score off the other guy. It sounded like they've been trying to knock each other off for a couple of years, because the fat bastard said something about paying back a debt from the old days at Smolensk."

"Operation Barbarossa," murmured Hogan. "Burkhalter was an infantry commander during the Russian campaign. Like most Kraut generals, he makes enemies easily, and he can hold a grudge."

"Well, whatever it was, it must have been something big. The Gestapo officer looked about ready to shoot him. He said the matter wasn't finished yet, and he'd be taking it further. And then he left. Burkholder - whatever his name was - didn't hang around either, but his aide stayed back for a minute, to let me know that if I made any trouble about how I'd been treated, the general might have to reconsider his decision. He told me to clean myself up, gave me some old uniform coverall they'd gotten from somewhere - I didn't ask, and I don't want to know. Then they handed me over to the transit camp guards, who put me in the truck with the other guys and brought me straight here."

There was a little silence after he finished talking. Hogan rested his shoulders against the bars, running his thumb over his upper lip as he went back over the story. "What happened to Smith?" he asked.

"Don't know. And I don't care," replied Mills brusquely.

From the top of the stairs came the sound of the main cooler door opening. There was no time for more questions, but Hogan felt he already knew enough information to go on with. "Okay, Mills, leave it with me," he said. "And don't give up. You're in a tight spot, but..." He broke off, then went on in a different tone. "...but I'm sure the Kommandant will be willing to reduce your sentence, as you've seen the error of your ways. I'll see what I can do."

He turned to greet Schultz, who was rushing down the stairs. "Gosh, Schultz, what kept you so long? I'm a busy man, I can't hang around all day while you're off fraternizing with the rest of the prisoners."

"Oh, I am sorry, Colonel Hogan. Carter was showing me a card trick. Only it didn't seem to work very well," said Schultz breathlessly. "He had to do it a lot of times, and it still didn't make sense."

"All right. I'll overlook your tardiness this time," replied Hogan, in a grave, disapproving tone. "But don't let it happen again." He glanced at Mills, who had slumped back against the wall. Clearly, he didn't put much faith in Hogan's last few words. But as Hogan left the cooler, he was already working on the problem.

One detail in particular, something Mills had probably let slip by accident, had set alarm bells ringing in his mind. If everything he had said was true, the consequences, if the Gestapo broke him, wouldn't just encompass the unknown heroes who had helped him. The net would spread wider than that. Possibly wide enough to trap Hogan and his men.


	15. Chapter 15

As soon as Hogan came out of the cooler, Kinch, who was loitering outside the barracks, strolled across the yard to meet him.

"It's all organized, Colonel," he said. "The liquor's been stashed, right where you told us to put it."

"Good. So now I can tell Klink where to find it. That should lower his blood pressure a little."

"You think he'll let Mills out of the cooler?" asked Kinch.

"Maybe, if I give him a push. But if it means going back to Barracks 18, he's better off where he is, for now."

"Did he happen to mention why he copped to the burglary?" asked Newkirk, joining them in time to hear this.

"Yes, he did. Turns out we weren't as smart as we thought," replied Hogan. "I'll give you the full story, but first I have to go and square things with Klink." He set off again, but stopped in his tracks. "Kinch, while I'm gone, have a word with Carter. Ask him if he can remember a Lieutenant Smith from when he was at 182 Squadron. Yeah, I know, it's a long shot. There were probably half a dozen guys called Smith."

"And chances are he'll get them mixed up," added Newkirk. "What's this chap Smith got to do with anything, Colonel?"

"Later, Newkirk. It's a long story, and I don't want to make a serial out of it. But I'll tell you this much," said Hogan grimly. "We're going to have some work to do."

Leaving them to make what they could of that, he continued on his way, ascending the steps of the Kommandantur at a brisk pace. He passed through the outer office with no more than a wink at Klink's pretty secretary, and knocked on the door of the inner sanctum, barely waiting for a reply before barging in.

"Can I have a word, sir?" he asked.

Klink, with a pencil in hand and a requisition form in front of him, scarcely looked up. "Yes, come in, Hogan," he muttered distractedly.

Hogan had already done so. He stood in front of the desk, regarding Klink's papers with interest. "Ordering some more bottles of _Schnaps_?"

"For your men to steal, I suppose," Klink grumbled. "No, Hogan, I'm getting a new padlock for the officers' mess. I'd like to fit them to every barracks door, as well."

"Oh, you don't need to do that, sir," said Hogan. "No burglar's going to break into the barracks. There's nothing in there worth stealing."

"The idea, Hogan, is not to keep criminals out," replied Klink, through gritted teeth. "It's to keep them in. And if I had any money left in the camp budget, I'd do it. Unfortunately...never mind."

"I can guess." Hogan made himself comfortable on the nearest chair. "The work on the new buildings came to a sudden stop a couple of days ago. They've run over cost, right?"

"That's none of your business," Klink snapped. Then, just as Hogan expected, he confirmed it. "There's a shortage of building materials, which means everything costs more and takes longer to get here. Half of what we pay for never arrives, it ends up on the black market. Meanwhile, General Burkhalter rings every day, demanding to know how soon they'll be finished. He has no idea of the difficulties I have to contend with." He finished with a fretful grunt, and an impotent sweep of his fist.

It was good news as far as Hogan was concerned. The fifteen men in Barracks 18 were giving him enough trouble, he could do with a break before another two huts full of new prisoners turned up to complicate his life. "Well, maybe I can cheer you up, Kommandant," he said. "I've just been over at the cooler having a long chat with Mills."

"Ah." Klink leaned back in his chair. "Did he give you the names of his partners in crime?"

"No, he sticks to it that he acted alone."

"Ridiculous. I don't believe it." Klink straightened up, and dismissed the claim with a wave of his hand. "There must have been more than one man involved."

"Well, if so, he's too loyal to squeal on them. And when you think about it, sir, that's kind of admirable," observed Hogan. He could see disagreement in Klink's eye, and hastened to turn the conversation. "But he did tell me where he hid the loot."

"Ah, so he's finally decided to show some sense. I must confess, Hogan, I'm quite curious," said Klink. "My guards searched every inch of Barracks 18, including all the usual places you prisoners come up with for your contraband, but they found nothing."

"That's because he didn't hide it in the barracks." Hogan stood up, and began to walk slowly back and forth. "He found somewhere better. Somewhere close at hand, but where there was no risk of anyone coming across it by accident. Somewhere the guards would never think to look. Somewhere so obvious..."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Hogan, just get to the point."

Interrupted in mid-flight, Hogan put on a wounded look. "I'm only trying to build the suspense, Kommandant."

"If I want suspense, I'll read the latest news from the Russian Front," snapped Klink. "Tell me where it is, or you'll join Mills in the cooler."

The ill-used air descended into petulance. "Oh, all right, he hid them under the floorboards of one of the unfinished huts."

"I see," nodded Klink. "Very clever. This man is obviously smarter than he appears."

"He's very, very sorry," said Hogan. "He told me he doesn't know why he did it, but my guess is it was a mental aberration, brought on by the stress of finding himself in the toughest POW camp in all of Germany. Now, it's my considered opinion that you should show a little compassion, and let him off lightly."

He had been deliberately tactless, and it worked. Klink stood up, glaring at him. "Oh, you do, do you? Well, I intend to make an example of him. He will stay where he is for thirty days, and the other new prisoners can learn from his misfortune."

"Aw, gee, sir, that's harsh. After all, he did own up."

"Only because he knew he couldn't get away with it. It's not up for argument, Hogan," snapped the Kommandant. "Mills' sentence stands, thirty days. And I can promise you, I will not be so lenient in the future. Dismissed."

"You're a hard man, Colonel," remarked Hogan. He started towards the door, but stopped. "Oh, by the way, sir, about my finder's fee. I was thinking, maybe ten percent of the recovered goods would be fair..."

"Dismissed, Hogan." Klink strode to the door and flung it open.

"Well, that's the last time I help you solve a tricky case," said Hogan reproachfully, and made his exit, leaving Klink to order a renewed search.

He walked quickly across the yard. But as he entered the barracks, he stopped, his eyes narrowing at sight of an unexpected visitor. Kinch caught the look, and hastened to explain: "Adams has just come over to ask about Mills, Colonel."

"Is he okay, sir?" Adams burst out.

"He's fine," replied Hogan. "The bad news is, he's drawn thirty days in solitary for that little caper."

"But he didn't do it."

"You and I both know that. The trouble is, Klink doesn't. And I can't tell him where Mills really was last night without causing even more trouble." Hogan shrugged, as if resigned to the situation. "Okay, it's not fair, but there's not much I can do about it."

"You've spoken to him, haven't you, Colonel?" Adams hesitated, discouraged by the colonel's apparent lack of concern. "Did he say why he did it? I mean, did he tell you why he got himself thrown in jail for something he didn't do?"

Hogan regarded him keenly for a few moments before he answered. "He didn't say anything at all. I might as well have saved my breath. I'm sorry, but if he won't come clean with me, then I can't help him."

He felt, rather than saw, the sudden tension amongst his men. But Adams, flushing at the implied snub, didn't notice. "Yes, sir," he mumbled.

"Okay, get back to your barracks. And don't worry about Mills," said Hogan. "A few days in the cooler won't hurt him. Dismissed."

Faced with an officer who, to all appearances, had lost interest in the matter, Adams didn't have the nerve to persist. With a puzzled, disappointed air, he left the barracks,

"What's up, Colonel?" asked Kinch, as soon as the door had closed.

"The Gestapo have an informant in camp," said Hogan. "Probably one of the new prisoners. I can't rule any of them out, not even Adams. And if we don't play it safe, it won't just be Mills who'll suffer for it. A lot of other lives will be on the line, including ours. So until we know for sure, everyone in Barracks 18, including Adams, is a suspect."


	16. Chapter 16

"There were a couple of guys called Smith, back when I was at the 182nd." Carter's forehead crinkled, as he searched his memory. "I didn't get to know either of them real well, but I guess one of them might have been Mills' pal."

"Some pal," muttered LeBeau, cleaving a potato with a single stroke which showed his anger as eloquently as the low growl in his voice. "What kind of a man stabs one of his crewmates in the back like that?"

Hogan grunted. "It's not that simple. From what Mills told me, Smith was in no condition to stand up to whatever kind of pressure the Gestapo might have put him under. It's no wonder if he cracked."

"He seems to have told them a lot more about Mills than he needed to," remarked Newkirk. He was leaning against the end of the bunk he shared with Carter, but anyone who assumed he was relaxed would have been badly mistaken.

"I'm not excusing him for that, and I'm damned sure Mills won't," replied the colonel. "But allowance has to be made for his state of mind. Okay, Carter, don't worry about it. I would have liked to know for sure that Lieutenant Smith actually exists, because we've only got Mills' word for any of this, but I didn't hold much hope."

His men exchanged glances, and Newkirk spoke for all of them: "You believe it, don't you, Colonel?"

"Yes, I do. That doesn't mean I'm not going to check it out from any possible angle. But we've been trying to figure Mills out ever since he arrived, and this is the first time I've felt like he makes sense," said Hogan.

"I don't suppose there's any chance we can track Smith down?"

"Not a hope. You know how many guys called Smith there are in POW camps? And that's assuming he's still alive." Hogan paused for a moment, then shook his head slightly. "Anyway, wherever he is, Smith's not our problem right now. We've got more urgent business to take care of."

"You mean, getting Mills out of the Gestapo's sights," said Kinch.

"Him, and the people who helped him, the people he's trying to protect," confirmed Hogan, his brow lowering. "He's pretty determined not to give them away. Even after he decided I could be trusted, he absolutely refused to give me any names. But he did let slip one clue, without realising it. He mentioned the location of the safe house he was headed for. Apparently it's in Mendelburg."

He paused, giving his men a few moments to make the connection. Kinch got there first: "We've got Underground contacts in Mendelburg."

"Exactly. And you can bet your last dollar some of the people who helped Mills are also in the Underground. If he talks, and the Gestapo start picking those people up, sooner or later the trail will lead directly to Stalag 13, and us."

His men picked up the grim note in his voice, and Kinch's tone grew troubled. "You think he can hold out, if the Gestapo go to work on him again?"

"I think he'll hold out as long as he can," said Hogan. "But I don't intend to let it come to that."

He started pacing back and forth, as he analyzed the situation. "Mills expects this Gestapo creep to turn up here any day now. It may take longer than he thinks, because the guy has to get round Burkhalter first."

"And that's not easy," added LeBeau. "In more ways than one."

A chuckle went round the barracks, and even Hogan smiled, but he got serious almost at once. "Before he arrives, it'd be a good idea if we could find out who he is. Kinch, get on to the Underground, tell them to make some enquiries. Start with Burkhalter, we know he's got a feud on with the guy."

"Yeah, and with half the other Gestapo men in Germany," observed Kinch.

"That's true, but we only want to know about the ones he's had recent dealings with. That aide of his - the one who drinks at the Hauserhof - he gets talkative once he's had a few, and he might let something slip while he's trying to impress the barmaid. Worth a shot, anyway. You'd better get word to our people at Mendelburg to lie low and prepare for the worst."

"Maybe they know something about him," said Newkirk. "He's been sniffing round their area, so they've probably got a bit on him, like we do on our local Gestapo."

Hogan nodded. "Good point. See if they can tell us anything, Kinch."

As the radio man descended into the tunnel, LeBeau straightened up, ready for action. "What about the rest of us, _mon Colonel_? What are we to do?"

"The rest of you can take another look at Mills' barracks mates," said Hogan. "If he's on the level, then one of them is a Gestapo informant. Do a little digging, get some of them talking, and see if you can track down who it was who started the rumors, and who's been talking it up the most. But play it safe, okay? If the informer figures out that Mills has talked, things could get ugly."

"It'd be easier if we could just have a heart to heart with young Adams," Newkirk pointed out. "I mean, he's the one who came for help, when things got sticky, Colonel. Why would he do that, if he was working for the Gestapo?"

Hogan's voice was completely level as he answered: "Because the Gestapo don't want Mills dead, and the best way to make sure that doesn't happen is to get the senior POW officer involved. Adams might be on the level, or he might be doing his best to make sure Mills is still alive when they come for him."

"Never thought of that," said Newkirk. "All right, then, how do we go asking questions without tipping our hand?"

"Play on their prejudice," replied Hogan. "I brought Mills over here without consulting any of you. It wouldn't surprise any of them if you objected. Tell them you want him out, but you need to get the facts so you can convince me to take the necessary steps."

Newkirk shrugged. "Well, it's plausible. They probably think we're no happier about Mills than they were," he said, glancing at Carter, who looked unusually grave, but didn't seem to have taken the colonel's suggestion as a personal rebuke. "And it wouldn't have taken long for them to work out you're a stubborn so... I mean, once you've made up your mind about something, you're not easily swayed ...sir."

Hogan's eyes narrowed with laughter. Knowing Newkirk, when he got to discussing his commanding officer with the men of Barracks 18, _stubborn sod_ would be one of the milder epithets he'd use, and LeBeau wouldn't be far behind him. "Okay, you know what to do. Get going."

Newkirk and Carter went on the word, but LeBeau took a moment to stir the contents of the big pot standing on the stove. As a result, he collided with Schultz in the doorway, and had to step back and let the big guard past.

"Mmm, what's cooking?" asked the big sergeant, raising his shoulders to inhale as much of the aroma as possible.

"Beef Stroganoff," said LeBeau over his shoulder as he hastened away. "You should try it, Schultzie. The way this war is going, you'll be seeing a lot more of it."

"Jolly joker," Schultz growled after him. "Colonel Hogan, the Kommandant wants to talk to you."

Hogan gave an exasperated sigh. "Again? Can't he run the place on his own without wanting my advice every five minutes?"

"I think he wants to talk to you about Mills," said Schultz. "We found the missing _Schnaps_, right where he said it was."

"All right, Schultz, I'm coming." Hogan stepped around Schultz's substantial girth, and left the barracks.

Fräulein Hilda, still at her post behind the typewriter in the Kommandant's reception room, greeted him with reproachful blue eyes. "You haven't spoken to me all day," she murmured.

"Sorry, Hilda. It's been one of those days," said Hogan, pausing for long enough to drop a kiss on the top of her head. "I'll get back to the important stuff soon, I promise." The warm smile he added promised even more, but Hilda had seen it often enough to know what it was worth, and she returned to her work with a decidedly pettish air.

Hogan tapped lightly on the door, hardly waiting for a response before going in. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes, Hogan. As you can see, the contraband has been retrieved." Klink, smirking like a cat who had just devoured the pet canary, pointed to the row of bottles standing on his desk. "It was under the floor of the unfinished barracks, just as you said."

"You mean, just as Mills said," Hogan pointed out. "Well, at least now it's all been cleared up, so..."

"Not so fast, Hogan. There's still the little matter of Mills' accomplices." Klink rose from his chair, and leaned forward with his hands on the desk. "Until they have been identified and punished, this incident is not over."

Hogan adopted an air of bemusement. "Gee, Kommandant, I don't know. Mills said nobody else was involved, and he was awfully convincing. Maybe he really did do it on his own."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Hogan. How could one man carry all those bottles all the way across the compound without making any sound?"

"Maybe he made several trips."

Klink flapped an irritable hand at him. "Hogan, you're not going to sidetrack this time. I warn you, I will be relentless in my pursuit of the truth, and I won't let anything distract my attention from... Oh, for heaven's sake, Fräulein Hilda, what do you want?"

"_Bitte, Herr Kommandant_, I have General Burkhalter's aide on the telephone. Major Falke. He says it's urgent." Hilda's voice trembled almost imperceptibly, and Hogan gave her a sharp look. Something had obviously shocked her, but she retreated quickly without saying anything more.

Klink gave an exaggerated sigh, and reached for the phone. "It's a miracle I get anything done...Major Falke, how nice to hear from you. I trust General Burkhalter is in his usual good health..._Donnerwetter_! When? How?...And where is he now?...Yes, of course, I'll leave at once."

He hung up the phone. "Hogan, I have to go into Hammelburg. Dismissed."

"Is something wrong, sir?" asked Hogan, as the Kommandant hastily donned his topcoat and cap.

"Nothing to do with you. Dismissed." Klink flung the door open. "Fräulein Hilda, I'm going into Hammelburg for an urgent briefing. If any calls come in, direct them to Captain Gruber."

"I finish work in half an hour," Hilda protested, but Klink was already halfway out of the building, calling for Schultz at the top of his voice.

Hogan, left standing, turned to Hilda. "What's the big panic?"

"It's General Burkhalter," replied Hilda in a low voice. "His staff car ran off the road. The driver was killed, and the general was badly hurt. He's in the hospital in Hammelburg."

Hogan almost swore aloud. Any other time, Burkhalter's wellbeing would have been a matter of indifference to him, but now the general was the only thing standing between Mills and the Gestapo. The timing couldn't have been worse. "How did it happen?" he asked

"Major Falke didn't say."

Hogan's expression turned grim as he considered the likely causes. He gave Hilda another, rather distracted kiss, and walked out of the office.

It could just be a coincidence that, with the Gestapo expected at any moment, Mills' unlikeliest defender, and his most effective, had been neutralized. But Hogan didn't put much faith in coincidence. He knew the chances of proving it were almost nonexistent, but he was quite sure the accident to Burkhalter's staff car was not an accident at all.


	17. Chapter 17

Following evening roll call, the team regrouped in Hogan's office.

Hogan stood in front of the window, his arms folded. "Okay, what have you got?" he asked. "Kinch, you first."

"Not much so far, Colonel," said Kinch. "I've been in contact with Kurt in Hammelburg. Burkhalter's car crash has gotten his staff running round in circles, so his aide won't be going into the Hofbrau for a chat with the barmaid for a while. But he did drop a hint to her, the last time he was there, that Burkhalter had been involved in some kind of altercation with the Gestapo recently, and had gotten the better of them. That ties in with what Mills told you."

"Any information on the crash?"

"The staff car left the road on that straight stretch coming up to the bridge at Braunfeld, rolled down the bank and ended up in the river. Lucky for Burkhalter, there was an army convoy passing at the time. Some of them stopped to help, pulled him out of the water and got him to the hospital in Hammelburg."

"You're having us on," Newkirk put in. "There isn't a safer bit of road within a hundred mile radius. You'd have to be blind, or blind drunk, to put the car off the road there."

"Well, the driver didn't make it, so we can't ask him," said Hogan. "Where's the car now, Kinch?"

"Still lying under the Braunfeld bridge, what's left of it," replied Kinch. "I guess they'll get round to salvaging it, but from what Kurt's heard, it's a write-off, so they're not going to be in any hurry over it." He tilted his head slightly as he read Hogan's expression. "You think maybe it was tampered with?"

"I'm not sure. It's hard to buy the idea of driver error. He's been with Burkhalter for years, ever since the Germans went into Russia. He's had experience of some of the worst conditions you could come up with. Why should he drive off a perfectly safe, straight road and down an embankment, unless something caused him to lose control?"

"I guess so," said Kinch slowly. "Only it seems a lot of trouble for this Gestapo officer to go to, just so he can have another crack at Mills."

"It might not be only about Mills, or even about the rescue organization at Mendelburg. We know the guy's got history with Burkhalter. This is probably just the latest in a long line of confrontations. It was only a matter of time before one of them - Burkhalter or his pal - decided he'd had enough."

"Well, it saves us a bit of trouble, when the Krauts start doing each other in," observed Newkirk. "Bloody obliging of them if you ask me."

"Mills wouldn't agree with you," replied Hogan grimly. "So far, Burkhalter's been the only thing keeping him out of Gestapo custody. Now he's out of the picture. And no matter what caused the accident, it's an even money bet his old pal is going to be ready to take advantage of it."

He meditated for a moment, then changed the subject. "What about the Underground in Mendelburg, Kinch?"

"Couldn't reach them," said Kinch. "But I asked Kurt if he was aware of anything going on there that we didn't know about. He was a bit evasive, but I got the impression he knew, all right. Which, I guess, means there's a chance some of his people in Hammelburg are involved, too."

"Which is all we need," growled Hogan. He turned an unintentionally stern glare on the others. "How did you get on with the new prisoners? Were you able to pin down the source of the talk about Mills?"

LeBeau rolled his eyes, Carter flushed, and Newkirk uttered a sarcastic laugh. "Nobody seems to know who started it. Tom heard it from Dick, who heard it from Harry, who heard it from Tom."

Hogan's frown deepened. "Just like any other rumor. The damn things pop up out of nowhere, and spread like weeds."

"Well, this particular weed had a bit of help, Colonel," said Newkirk. "There was one name kept coming up as the chief propagator."

"MacNeill," added LeBeau. "He was the one who talked about it the most, and the attack on Mills was his idea."

Newkirk lounged against the desk, his eyes half-closed. " I had a bit of a chinwag with him today, along the lines you suggested, Colonel. It was him that originally told us about Mills, you might remember. So as soon as I hinted that we wanted Mills chucked out, he was very keen to help in any way he could. Only thing is, when I asked him if he could point me in the direction of the bloke who started the story, he said he didn't know, he'd just heard some of the others talking about it. I didn't like to press him about it in case he got suspicious, so..."

He broke off at a soft tap on the door, which opened to admit one of the other men. "Sorry to interrupt, Colonel. Thought you'd like to know, Klink's back from his briefing. He went into his office, but he must have sent for Gruber and Schultz, because they've just gone in there, too."

Hogan nodded. "Okay, keep watching. Kinch - the coffee pot."

Kinch was already plugging it in, while LeBeau arranged the speaker on the desk. A moment later, the sound of Klink's voice came through, with a certain brittleness which was not entirely due to the nature of its transmission. "Captain Gruber - Schultz - at ease. I have some important news. As you know, General Burkhalter's staff car was involved in a serious accident earlier today. The general suffered very serious injuries, and is now in the Luftwaffe hospital in Hammelburg. I have no doubt at all that he will make a full recovery in time."

"Sounds like he'd be happier if Burkhalter croaked," said Kinch.

Newkirk shrugged. "I'm not surprised. It's the first time in two years he's been out from under Burkhalter's ruddy great boot heel, so he's probably not looking forward to the overfed old bugger getting back into stomping condition."

He subsided, at an admonitory glance from Hogan. Klink was still speaking: "This afternoon, I was called to an emergency briefing of the Luftstalag Kommandants in this area. We have been advised that until the general returns to duty, or a successor is appointed, his administrative command will be overseen by General Radermacher of the general staff. However, as General Radermacher also has many other responsibilities, he has given orders for each Kommandant to take personal charge of all except the most serious matters relating to the administration of his camp. So for the time being, all important decisions will be made by me."

The reactions of his subordinates were clearly audible through the speaker. Schultz choked trying to suppress a snigger, and Gruber cleared his throat, abruptly and loudly. A few chuckles could be heard in the barracks, too, but Hogan, leaning forward with a look of concentration, remained serious.

Gruber made an effort and composed himself, although his voice was pitched higher than usual when he spoke: "_Herr Kommandant_, might I ask how the accident happened?"

Hogan's eyebrows went up. Burkhalter wasn't exactly well-loved by any of the men under his command. Even from a notorious apple-polisher like Gruber, such concern seemed out of character. However, Newkirk already knew what it sprang from, and gave a quick explanation. "The goons are running a sweep on it, Colonel. Gruber's money is on the front near wheel falling off."

"How about Schultz?" asked LeBeau.

"Driver swerved to avoid a Tiger Tank."

"...the actual reason may never be known," Klink was saying. "But you may be sure that there will be a full investigation, and any conclusions reported to the relevant authority."

This time it was Kinch who interpreted: "Which means the driver will get the blame, seeing as he's dead and can't defend himself. I wonder who got that in the pool?"

"That's all. Dismissed." Klink had concluded the meeting. The sound of Schultz's and Gruber's footsteps sounded, then the door opening and closing. Then silence. Kinch unplugged the coffee pot, and put the basket back where it belonged.

Newkirk lit a cigarette, narrowing his eyes against the smoke. "So who's this General Radermacher, then? Anyone know?"

"Whoever he is, it sounds like keeping an eye on the prison camps isn't a priority," said Kinch. "He's effectively left Klink in charge of Stalag 13."

"That'd be bad news even on a good day." Hogan rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay, let's sum up. We know there's an informer somewhere in camp, but we don't know who it is - yes, I know you all like MacNeill for it, but try to keep an open mind. We've got Burkhalter out of action, leaving Klink in full control of Stalag 13. We've got Mills in the cooler, with information in his head that could get a whole lot of good people shot, including us. At any moment, some Gestapo creep might turn up to get that information out of him, by whatever method he considers appropriate. And we don't even know the bastard's name."

Carter, who had remained unusually silent up till now, suddenly spoke: "What are we gonna do about Mills, Colonel?"

"I don't know yet," replied Hogan. "As long as he's in the cooler, seems to me there's not a lot we can do."

"But - but we're not gonna let the Gestapo get him, are we?" Carter's voice went up in his agitation. "I mean, sure, I don't like the guy, but he's already had the third degree once, and you know what they do with fellers who won't talk. You can't just let them take him away."

Hogan met his accusing gaze with a faint, rueful smile. Then he glanced around at the others, finding reproach, dissatisfaction and disapproval on all sides.

"You might as well know, Colonel, I'm with Carter on this," said Kinch.

LeBeau nodded. "_Moi aussi_."

"And that makes it unanimous," concluded Newkirk.

Hogan's smile grew warmer, and his eyes were bright with satisfaction. "I already knew that, but I'm glad to hear you all say it. As it happens, I'm not planning to leave Mills to his fate. I don't know how we're going to do it, but one way or another, we're going to get him out if this."


End file.
